


The Same Love Twice?

by AlwaysSpeaksHerMind



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance, S3 Speculative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 57,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12265335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysSpeaksHerMind/pseuds/AlwaysSpeaksHerMind
Summary: After Mon-El is forced to leave Earth, Kara decides she's had enough losses to last a lifetime and erects a shield around her heart. Then Mon-El returns out of the blue, and as everything changes (or maybe nothing does), the Girl of Steel is faced with the realization that her shield may have some weaknesses in it after all.[This will become AU probably the SECOND Season 3 begins, but a girl can dream, right?]





	1. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again (Six Months)

**Author's Note:**

> *Chapter title inspired by one of my favorite songs from Phantom of the Opera*

Six months. That’s how long it’s been, now.

Six months since she stood in an empty field beneath a gray, lead-filled sky, watching him leave her behind and feeling like a part of her had been ripped away.

She remembers everything with the terrible clarity that goes hand in hand with trauma—the tears, the rain, the sound of his ragged breathing reminding her that she can’t keep holding onto him, that she has to let him go if she wants him to live. And it’s not fair. It’s just not _fair._ She’s already lost her parents, her home, her whole world. Why does she have to lose him, too? Why does saving the lives of billions of humans have to come at the cost of his? Why does she always have to do The Right Thing, even when she knows doing it will all but kill her inside?

Part of her wants to scream, to let everyone in the whole ungrateful world know her rage and the pain that accompanies it. But she doesn’t have much time left with him, and she can’t bear to waste what little there is. So she finally, finally, _finally_ tells him she loves him, because she’s afraid that if he doesn’t hear her actually speak the words, he’ll wonder for the rest of the long life he’s _going_ to have if she ever felt the same. And she can’t let him go off wondering about that because she does, oh Rao she does, and she loves him so much and feels it so acutely that she almost wishes she didn’t.

Almost.

Because when his hands cradle her face and his lips press against hers, both of them putting every ounce of feeling into what they know are the last kisses they’ll ever exchange, all the thousands of little things she loves about him go galloping through her mind, and she knows deep down that she’s grateful she got to spend even a small portion of her life with him. But the warm glow from that realization can only last so long, because as much as she’d give anything to stay right there with him, she can’t _._ She has to send him away, and she has to watch him go, and she can’t fight it no matter how much she wants to. And oh, it _hurts_. Like an unhealable wound, it hurts so much that she doesn’t know what to do with the pain, so she just stands there looking up at the sky and sobbing long after the pod’s disappeared into the atmosphere.

Then it happens all over again. Time after time, after time.

Lying on her back, Kara digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. Her mouth stretches into a tight line as she takes an unsteady breath. She knows all the details backward and forward, because she’s relived that horrible moment every single night since it happened, and the only thing that’s changed in six months is how she responds to her feelings. Because now that some time has passed, she’s no longer knuckling under to that raw, burning pain she felt the instant his pod faded from view. Now, her tears are rarer (if stormier), because she can’t afford to cry anymore. Not when there’s work to be done, and certainly not when someone might see her and start worrying about her red-rimmed eyes. Alex, Winn, Lena, J’onn, James, Maggie, even M’gann…they all know she’s not quite okay. They try not to show it, but it’s not like they’re that subtle. In fact, she’s pretty sure they have a secret Check On Kara schedule, because one of them ‘drops by for a visit’ at least once a week, and they’re always trying to casually encourage her to go out and do fun things with them.

But she’s not very interested in that anymore, and in a way, she thinks, laughing a laugh tinged with bitterness even though there’s nothing really very funny about this at all, that’s what hurts the most. Her sister and friends don’t understand how deep her pain runs, and she doesn’t even have to work very hard to keep them from that uncovering that knowledge. They suspect, maybe—every now and then, she’ll say something flat and cold, and they’ll all kind of pause and give her this _Oh, you poor thing_ look that makes her want to blast a hole in the nearest wall and exit via it. But the best they can really do is sympathize, and because it’s her pain, not theirs, she doesn’t want their pity. Besides, Alex is busy being happy and making plans with Maggie, as she should be. J’onn’s got the DEO to look after, and he’s getting closer and closer with M’gann, who visits sporadically. (Kara doesn’t begrudge him _that_ of course; J’onn’s been alone for so long now and she’s glad he finally has someone again—God knows she understands that feeling). Winn’s busy cultivating whatever it is he has with Lyra and helping James take care of Guardian business, while James is always off doing either Guardian or CatCo stuff, and Lena is forever getting excited about some new science project that Kara can’t even begin to pretend to be interested in. They’re all continuing on with their lives and they clearly want her to do the same, but she just can’t. Not in the same way.

Because she’s not like them. She’s not human.  Why she ever bothered pretending to be is beyond her.

Clark and J’onn are the only ones who seem to remotely suspect that particular aspect of her detachment, but again, they’re both too busy to be able to worry about her full-time.  And she doesn’t mind that at all. She even encourages everyone’s preoccupation, because it shields her from being asked constantly how she’s doing, and given how hard she works to keep up appearances, she really doesn’t want them noticing that her laughter is less frequent now and more forced when it does occur. She’s fine being on her own—perfectly fine, until suddenly, she’ll accidentally stumble across some memory tied to Mon-El, and then the numbness peels away in a second and leaves her a mess of raw, smarting emotion all over again, and she feels more alone than she’s ever felt before.

_Like now._

Turning abruptly onto her side, she stares for a long while at the pool of moonlight illuminating the unrumpled blankets beside her. Despite her best efforts, a tear sneaks out and winds its way down her cheek, the soft _plunk_ it makes when it lands on her pillow causing more to fill her eyes. She misses him far more than she wants to, but it’s always worst at night. During the daylight hours, she can push the lingering ache to the back of her mind—even forget it, if there’s something complicated enough to require most of her attention, like a burning building full of people or a collapsed bridge with five o’clock traffic heading its way.

But at night, it’s a different story altogether. At night, when the world goes dark and still and she has to climb into a bed that now seems empty and enormous, all bets are off—there’s no one there to fool but herself, and it’s awful. Because when she’s lying under the covers trying to makes herself fall asleep, it’s like he’s so close that if she just holds out for a few seconds longer, maybe she’ll hear the door open as he comes home after a late shift at the bar—hear the crash and muffled swearing when he inevitably trips over something while trying to tiptoe around in the dark so as not to wake her up; hear the springs creaking as he crawls into bed beside her while she feigns sleep just so she can enjoy feeling him lean over and kiss her temple right before he whispers a tickly _Hi_ right in her ear _,_ because he always knows somehow when she’s awake.

Only none of that’s going to happen thanks to a decision she made, and try as she will, she can’t ever quite let herself pretend she believes it. Because if she does, it’ll be like losing him all over again when the fantasy ends, and she just can’t do that. She _can’t._ He’s gone forever and she has to accept that, if only for the sake of her own sanity. She’s made herself vulnerable one too many times, and she can’t make that kind of mistake anymore if she intends to keep on defending the city.

She knows all this. She does, really. But when it comes to giving herself good advice, Kara is like Alice of _Wonderland_ fame—excellent at the giving, terrible at the following. Especially when it’s late and there’s no one around to see or care whether or not she does. Which only makes everything worse, because she can’t squelch the internal whispers that cruelly remind her that if he were here, she wouldn’t be able to do that—that he’d see her wallowing around in her head and do whatever lay within his power to stop it, or at least interrupt it for a few minutes. Maybe he’d offer up some startlingly sweet and completely biased compliment or piece of encouragement, or maybe he’d make some silly comment just to get her to forget her sadness for a few seconds and roll her eyes at him. Or maybe it would be both. Either way, it would work. He always seemed to read her better than she ever expected him to, and why, oh _why_ had she been idiotic enough to let him into her heart in the first place? All she had to do was keep her distance and not let herself care, and she wouldn’t have this agonizing knot in her chest.

Another few tears escape as Kara tries—and fails—to not think about him. To forget how it used to make her feel, giggling and burrowing drowsily into his arms while he made ridiculous jokes and nuzzled the top of her head with his chin. To forget the way he could go from smiling at her with all the joyful glee of a five-year-old to giving her the kind of smirk that made it necessary to remind herself that jumping one’s boyfriend in public was highly unprofessional. To forget the innumerable little ways he made her laugh, like that time he drew curly villain mustaches and evil eyebrows on all the boxes of Cap’n Crunch in her cabinets after hearing her mention once how sinister she’s always thought the Captain looks, or how he ran around the apartment doing sock slides in his underwear and singing incorrect versions of “Old Time Rock And Roll” for days after she made the mistake of showing him _Risky Business_.

Rao, she misses him. So much that she can barely stand it at times.

But she’ll get over it.

She has to, so she will.

And besides, she’s been giving it a lot of thought recently, and she’s made up her mind—she’s tired of this faking normality business. Of being Kara Danvers. That’s not who she is; it’s just a persona created for and once inhabited by a girl who barely exists anymore. She’s no longer a terrified young teenager trying to learn the ways of a strange planet. She’s no longer some insecure, crybaby personal assistant desperately trying to prove that she’s strong enough to stand up for herself and that she lives in no one’s shadow. She’s also, despite what her press badge may convey, no longer a fledgling journalist trying to use her human disguise to make a difference in the world.

She is an _alien_.

An alien from a destroyed planet who’s lost far too much that matters to her, and she’s officially had enough of it. She’s Supergirl. The Maid of Might, the Girl of Steel, and it’s about time she makes sure kryptonite is once again her lone weakness. She’s done with the pain and heartache, with this whole stupid business of letting people in just so they can become important to her right before she loses them. She’s got a very small number of people left she cares about, and she’ll do what she can to protect them and keep them safe. But that’s it. From now on, she’s going to be bulletproof on the inside as well as on the outside, and that is that.

She’s learned her lesson, and she has no desire at all to ever, _ever_ repeat the course.

So she won’t.

End of story, no exceptions.


	2. Hello Stranger (3 More Months)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3 months after embracing her colder, more dutiful side, Kara gets a shock when Mon-El returns.

“Kara! Oh my God, Kara, are you there?”

 The call, shrill and buzzing with excitement, comes over her comms at the exact second that she’s in the process of righting a couple of capsized tugboats, and given the circumstances, Kara’s less than pleased. She’s had multiple (read: _thousands of_ ) chats with Winn about only using this channel to relay information of the most vital importance—imminent world catastrophe, a family emergency, NSYNC reunion, etc.—but he forgets anyway and tends to ask random questions right when she most needs to concentrate. Plus there’s already a crowd of goggling onlookers shrieking encouragement and advice from shore; she doesn’t need or want any extra noise just now, so she decides to ignore him for the moment and save her breath.

But of course, Winn only takes her silence as an invitation to shout louder.

“Kara! Helloooo, Kara! Oh, uh, wait…I mean, Supergirl! Supergirl, do you read me? Yes? No? Dude, this is important, I swear! Come on, can you just answer me already so I at least know there’s not some kind of tech fail happening? I don’t want to shout this more than once. _Hellloooo?_ ”

She grunts, frustration mounting as the slick surface of the boat once again shoots out of her hands. It’s not that the thing’s all that heavy; it’s just bulky and annoyingly hard to grip. No. What’s getting her goat is the combination of the small-but-irritating job and the less-than thrilling intrusion of another voice in her head, since it probably means Winn’s got another pressing mission lined up for her that she’s probably going to hate and that’s going to make her toy with the concept of hating humankind.

Yet again.

“I’m a _little_ busy at the moment, all right?” she growls through gritted teeth. “Can you maybe wait two minutes, please?”

“No!” Her friend’s voice crackles over the wire again. “Kara listen, it’s about Mon-El! We—”

_Mon-El._

Kara stills, air whooshing out of her lungs as abruptly as if she’s a pricked balloon. For a second or two she hovers in midair, a dull roar in her ears drowning out whatever mundane thing it is that Winn’s trying to spit out this time. Her eyes close momentarily, then, with a sudden, furious wrench, she flips the boat over, not even caring how the enormous splash drenches the bystanders and causes an outraged shout to arise from shore.

“ _Winn_ ,” she snaps, blasting over the water toward the second boat and taking deep gulps of air to calm herself again. She’s been doing so good lately. Fewer dreams, almost no tears, a decent amount of sleep per night, and even the ability to smile when she’s alone and she stumbles across one of the few pictures they took together. The lone area she hasn’t achieved complete compartmentalization on is discussions that include his name, and Winn knows this because he was there when she finally broke down and asked them all to please, please, _please_ not mention him to her for a while. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” her friend answers, his voice high-pitched and squawking. “But see, this is important, because Mon-El—”

“Is gone. For good. We don’t know where, we can’t figure out where, and I already know all this better than anyone else in the entire _galaxy_ , so would you just leave me alone now, please?” Kara finishes for him, not even caring how angry she sounds. “I’m on the clock, I need to focus, and so help me Rao, Winn, if you say his name one more time, I’m going to—”

“No, Kara, listen! Listen to me! _Mon-El is—_ ”

“Bye, Winn.”

Seething to the point of actual trembling, Kara yanks out the comms and crushes them in a fist. Releasing a shout, she flings the chalky plastic dust toward the water with every bit of strength she possesses. What does it matter if she’s technically just destroyed government property? She can explain the damage to J’onn later. He’ll understand. Or he won’t, and frankly, she doesn’t much care which it is. Right now, she’s got a job to finish. And after that, she’s got other responsibilities to attend to, because her ears are already picking up the sounds of gunshots near the center of the city, and unless she’s greatly mistaken, an ill-formed attempt at a bank robbery is in progress.

(And even if that weren’t the case, there is no way she’s going back to the DEO until she has a chance to cool off.)

So after she fixes the second boat, she blasts into the sky and heads straight for the bank, where she snatches the weapons from the hands of the thieves and hauls them off to the police department in a matter of minutes. But the success of the enterprise does nothing to calm her, because for some unknown reason, Maggie seems compelled to try and discuss Mon-El with her as well, and Kara’s forced to speed out of the building before she loses control and either screams at her sister’s fiancée or bends the NCPD file cabinets into modern art.

By then she’s in such a cold, wretched rage that she knows she needs to keep far away from her friends and family, both for their safety and for her sanity, so she spends the next few hours flying around the city preventing or interrupting every crime she stumbles across and ignoring every attempt to thank her. Eventually, though, there’s nothing left for her to do except circle the buildings in pointless laps while the sun fades into a sea of blazing colors, and anyway, she’s so emotionally drained now that she sees no sense in putting it off any longer. She may as well head on over the DEO and take whatever concerned and well-meant-but-horribly-tedious scolding it is she has headed her way, because the sooner she gets that over with, the sooner she can go home, go to sleep, and try to forget any of this ever happened.

Despite her resolution, however, a film of tears clouds her vision at she sets off and she has to blink hard to keep the salty drops at bay. She’s been doing better. She's been doing _so_ much better. Why did they have to bring him up now and undermine these past months of effort? And for Rao’s sake, why can’t she just hold it together?

She’s still asking herself that question when she reaches the DEO, jaws aching from the strain of clenching her teeth, but she makes sure the calm, focused expression she’s adopted recently is firmly in place as she touches down on the balcony and strides into the control room. She doesn’t want anyone to see how much just hearing his name can damage her after nine months, but a quick glance around the room assures her that none of the knowing gazes she fears most are there to see her anyway.

Heaving a sigh of relief, she catches the eye of the agent nearest her and asks if he’s seen J’onn. Several other agents answer simultaneously— _infirmary—_ pointing up at it, and all at once she notices that every person in the room is watching her with a kind of nervous anticipation, like they’re all wondering what she’ll do. It doesn’t add up at first, but then in an instant, her stomach sinks.

The infirmary.

If J’onn’s in the infirmary, then someone must’ve gotten hurt. Is someone she cares about in pain—possibly even dying—because she was too weak and stubborn to just leave her stupid headset on and deal with being reminded of something she’d rather forget? Have the traces of lead in the atmosphere latently affected someone else she cares about?

She doesn’t know, and she certainly doesn’t plan on standing around until she finds out. Heart in her throat, she leaps straight into the air, aiming for the landing and silently pleading for everyone to please, please be all right.

But just before she touches down on the second floor, a blurry red _something_ appears from out of nowhere and crashes into her with teeth-rattling force, knocking her back over the railing the way she came. The collision is powerful enough to jar her from head to foot and the speed’s too great for her to change the flight trajectory much, but her fight reflexes kick in automatically and she grabs onto whatever just attacked her—because if she’s going down, they’re definitely going down with her—and braces herself as she zips backward, smashes into a DEO wall, and then drops straight to the floor.

It’s a swift, hard impact that knocks all remaining breath from her body, but she hangs grimly on anyway and makes good and sure that she’s the first one to kick out, roll over, and pin her antagonist down with a forearm to the throat.

“What—the— _hell_?” she pants, too breathless and too furious at being ambushed in what amounts to her own backyard to bother with eloquence. “ _Who_ …does that….you… _idiot_?”

Tossing her hair out of her face, both so she can see clearly and so she can heatvision them if need be without giving herself an unwanted haircut, she glares down at the person exhibiting a remarkable lack of struggle beneath her…

And the fist she has pulled back and ready to punch freezes in midair.

“No,” she whispers, the room suddenly swirling around her.

It can’t be him. It can’t. It’s just not possible. She’s dreaming again, or maybe hallucinating from hitting her head harder than she thought on that wall. He’s not really here. She’s not half-sitting, half-lying atop a warm, solid, utterly familiar body and staring into a pair of blue-gray eyes she knows just as well if not better than her own, because she can’t be. He left her because she made him, and there’s no way he can have somehow returned.

But even though all the impossibilities run through her head in a second, it’s hard to deny the evidence—she can see the rise and fall of his chest, hear and feel the sturdy, bass-drum thumping of his heart, and however unbelievable it seems, all signs point to a miracle.

“Holy Rao,” she whispers, almost afraid to blink for fear he’ll vanish the way he does in her dreams.

“Hi,” Mon-El says—casually, as though they’ve bumped into one another in the park, his forehead wrinkling into that adorable little furrow she hasn’t seen in so long that it almost physically hurts to witness it.

“Hi,” she gasps out, her mind reeling as it struggles to wrap itself around an absolute tsunami of information. “You…you’re…you’re back. I think?”

“Yeah.” He grins up at her, teeth flashing, and although she’s still in shock, she laughs like it’s a reflex. “That…is what they keep telling me.”

“And you’re okay! You can breathe!” she exclaims, the realization finally hitting her that he’s apparently surviving just fine in the contaminated atmosphere. “The lead isn’t messing with you?”

“No, at the moment, I don’t think lead is what’s making it difficult for me to breathe.” He raises an eyebrow, squirming a little beneath her.  “Would you mind moving your arm? Crashing into you was a complete accident. I uh, promise I’m not hostile.”

 “What?” For a moment she stares at him, distracted by his closeness and not comprehending his actual meaning until she looks down and realizes that she’s been cutting off roughly half his air supply this whole time. “Oh! Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

She snatches her arm away from his throat immediately, an embarrassed laugh escaping as she scoots back off his torso to where she’s seated more on his legs. She supposes she ought to move off him, but it’s like she can’t quite believe he’s real without tangible proof, and anyway, she kind of can’t bear to break physical contact with him. As he sits up, her hands find their way to his shoulders automatically, and warmth blooms in her chest as she smiles into the face she’s missed like crazy.

“Forgive me?” she says softly, tracing the stubbly edge of his jaw with her fingertips.

Something flickers in his eyes as he stares at her, his formerly easy smile replaced by a sudden look of intense concentration.

“Yeah,” he answers, but it’s barely above a whisper, and he seems almost startled by the rapidity of his own response even as he delivers it. “Yeah, I…forgive you.”

“Kara!”

She tears her gaze away long enough to glance back and see Alex, Winn, and J’onn all jogging toward her from the stairs, concern written on every face and in every movement, and she gets the impression that they’ve been calling her for a while now—she just hasn’t heard them.

“We’re all right,” she assures them, steadying herself when she twists around to face them by tucking her arm behind Mon-El’s neck and shoulders. “Just some bruises. Winn, I’m so sorry I blew you off earlier, I just thought—”

“No, no, it’s…it’s not that; forget about that.” Winn steps forward, his face paler than usual as he clutches a clipboard to his chest. “The thing is—yeah, uh…I may have spoken too soon?”

“Too soon?” Kara repeats, frowning.

Winn gulps visibly. “Uh-huh. See, I was trying to tell you that Mon-El showed up, but...that may not be true?”

Her frown deepens as she wonders whether or not her friend’s finally lost it. “What do you mean?”

“He means I may not be the Mon-El you all know,” the man whose lap she’s currently straddling responds, very matter-of-factly. “I may not even be _a_ Mon-El.”

“ _What?_ ” Kara gapes at him, then scans one apologetic face after another, wariness rising. “Are you ser—okay, what is going on? What does that even mean?”

“Agent Danvers?” J’onn says quietly. His expression is neutral, but there’s a hint of kindness in his voice that’s horribly unsettling. “Would you mind recounting the afternoon’s discovery?”

Alex sighs. “He just sort of turned up out of the blue,” she explains carefully. “Winn’s been tracking an anomaly on our radar for a few weeks now that we sent a team to check out today. When we got there, we found Mon—well, him—wandering around with a sort of amnesia—”

“Where?” Kara interrupts sharply.

Her sister’s look is full of a sympathy that’s lost on Kara. “Field,” she says gently. “You know which one.”

Kara nods, taking a deep breath as dizziness sweeps over her.

“You all right?” Mon-El—or apparently _not_ Mon-El asks in an undertone.

“Yeah,” she mumbles back, heat creeping up her neck as she realizes that she’s still sitting in his lap with her arm around him. Slowly, carefully, she drops her arm down to her side. “Fine.”

“The amnesia’s not complete, though,” Alex continues. “That’s where it gets complicated. We’ve spent the last few hours testing him, and he remembers a lot of things he _can_ do, but he’s drawing a blank on almost everything else, and a good portion of what he does remember doesn’t mesh with what we know about Mon-El.”

“Plus we’ve now established that he can fly, too,” Winn adds. “It’s not just the really big jumping thing anymore. Although we think he can also do that.”

_Fly?_ Momentarily speechless, Kara turns back to him for confirmation. “You can fly?” she queries, finally making the connection between the red blur she saw just before they collided and the suit he’s wearing—a dark red suit that looks a lot like it’s made of fabric similar to hers. “For real, and it’s not just jumping?”

He nods. “I can fly. They didn’t believe me, and that’s what I was trying to show them when I ran into you. Apparently the Mon-El you guys knew couldn’t do that?”

Her stomach knots as she remembers Barry telling her how freaky it is talking to someone who both is and isn’t the person you know and love. “No,” she mutters, looking down for a moment. “He couldn’t.”

“So anyway, since he doesn’t remember us and he can do stuff we don’t remember, we think he might be from, like, another universe or something?” Winn volunteers tentatively. “You know, like Barry and all them?”

Yes, an explanation that’s entirely possible. But even so…

Kara’s brows knit together. “You don’t remember any of us?” she asks the subject of all this discussion, narrowing her gaze. “You don’t remember m—um, anything about this Earth? Anything at all?”

Mon-El-slash-not-Mon-El shrugs. “No,” he says, so sincerely that even her irrational hope that this is some kind of cruel joke fades and she has to believe him. “I’m sorry, but…I don’t. I get a few hazy flashes of stuff that doesn’t make sense here and there, but none of them feel like they’re from this place. I mean, I could be wrong, but—I just don’t know.”

“Oh. Well, that’s no fun.” Acutely aware of the fact that she’s draped all over a (probable) stranger, Kara stands quickly. “So,” she remarks, forcing her tone to go light and businesslike as she holds out a hand and pulls him to his feet, “right. Um, just in case you’re new to these parts…” She points to herself. “I’m Supergirl, but I also answer to Kara. I’m guessing you’ve already met Alex, Winn, and J’onn, so it’s all good there.”

“Right. Of course. Well, I’m pleased to either meet you, or meet you again, Supergirl and Kara.” He smiles, hesitating before extending a hand. “My name’s Mon-El. I think. But just in case I’m wrong, don’t uh, hold me to it, okay?”

She swallows hard, his cheerful politeness like a stab to her still-racing heart. But she takes his hand anyway and gives it a firm shake, pasting on a smile of her own.

“I’m…really glad you’re all right,” she manages to tell him in a relatively normal tone. “But just to make sure you are, you’d probably better let Alex finish running her tests.”

“Yes. Uh…” Alex steps forward, motioning toward the stairs. “Mon-El, if you’ll follow me back where we just were, I’d like to run another couple of scans, okay?”

“Absolutely.” He nods, giving Kara a quick smile. “My apologies for crashing into you, Supergirl.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal.” She waves a hand, her attempt at laughing too harsh to call it successful, but she doesn’t much care because inside she’s already crumbling. “I kind of attacked you back, so I guess we’re even.”

He chuckles, and she barely holds in a sob at the sea of memories that sound evokes. But she keeps her composure as Alex points him toward the stairs, even achieving a big—if extraordinarily bland—smile as he bids her goodbye, blithely unaware of how hearing those words from his lips makes her ache.

She’s still fine, though. She’s sure of it. Until he turns away and she spots it—a telltale glint of silver, a little flash of blue at his throat, and just like that, her mouth goes dry. Whirling around, she covers her face with both hands, inhaling and exhaling enormous amounts of air as she tries to avoid hyperventilating in the middle of the DEO.

“Kara, I’m so sorry,” Winn whispers, giving her an awkward pat on the shoulder that barely registers. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you earlier without checking first. I just really thought it was him and got excited, and—”

“No, it’s fine,” Kara answers in a monotone. “You didn’t know this was going to happen.” The rollercoaster of emotions and adrenaline she’s just been on is ebbing away now, replaced by a growing numbness that threatens to crush her if she thinks too much about it. “And anyway, you were right. It is him.”

“ _What_? It _is?_ Seriously? I mean, what makes you think that?” Winn questions, his head whipping back and forth between Kara and the stairs. “He looks—but he doesn’t…he’s got the suit…yeah, okay, this is some _Tale of Two Cities_ crap to me. I can’t tell. H-how exactly can you? Is it something…awkward that I don’t want to know about?”

Kara shakes her head, muscles tensing as she braces herself and turns back around. As if drawn there instinctively, her eyes go straight to the man strolling unhurriedly into the infirmary—the man who once laughed with her, argued with her, teased her, kissed her, told her he loved her, and who she’s spent months missing.

“He’s still got the necklace,” she says quietly.

_He’s just forgotten me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Title inspired by Barbara Lewis' [very catchy] 1963 hit "Hello Stranger." ("It seems like a mighty long time" is a very Kara/Mon-El theme in my opinion.)  
> *I wrote this before really finding out about the plans for Sanvers, so there's going to be a little bit of an awkward transition between this chapter and the next involving Maggie...I didn't expect a breakup, just for her to not really appear in episodes, so I've had to work in a mention of why Kara sees her at the NCPD and then she's no longer around.  
> *Mentions of Mon's suit are vague, because I don't really know what kind of suit I hope he has, other than red with a blue cape. I picture him NOT wearing the S logo at first though, and adding it once he starts working with Kara again.  
> *There are going to be some more where was Mon/what was he doing questions asked, but because I'm going the amnesia route (I've wanted this storyline since I was sure the show had Chris Wood booked for S3), he's not going to have a lot of explanations to offer. (That's also why I planned this from K's POV...Mon with amnesia is limited in terms of memories, so everything I tried came out brief and boring. I still may do a chapter or two from his POV later, though.)  
> *I'm going to try to update this every 5 days or so, unless I end up with chapters that get too long and need to post more often. I'm also trying to alternate the angst of this one with happier chapters of my other Karamel fic just so I don't depress myself and a lot of y'all!  
> *Thanks for reading/commenting! Hope you're all having wonderful day (which you should be because SUPERGIRL SEASON 3 IS HERE!!!! Yesssssss. Everyone brace for Sad Kara :'( ) <3


	3. Distance (One More Week)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About a week after Mon-El's sudden appearance in the DEO, Kara tries to figure out how best to proceed when feelings and practicality aren't quite in sync.
> 
> **This is a little rough because I had to rewrite a lot of the original chapter to make it fit with a later chapter that I added in.

_Can you tell us your name?_

_I don’t…no, I don’t think so._

_You don’t_ think _so? Can you clarify that statement, please?_

_I mean I remember a lot of words that might be names. I just don’t know who or what they go to. Maybe they’re mine, maybe they’re not. It’s all jumbled._

_Jumbled how?_

_Puzzle pieces. Torn up pieces of paper. Take your pick. It’s like there’re a few things still there, but they don’t seem to connect at all. I remember planets, a ship—stars. Lar-Gand, Titan, Ranzz, Daxam._

_Okay, that’s a start, at least. What about the suit? Can you tell me anything about that? Or the jewelry I can’t help but notice you’re wearing?_

_The suit…not really. I’ve had it for a while, I think. The ring—same thing. Except I know it helps me fly. I can’t say for sure about the necklace. Good luck charm, maybe? It doesn’t seem to_ do _anything, so that’s my best guess._

Kara hits pause on the video. Taking a deep breath, she tucks the pencil she’s in danger of breaking behind an ear and wills herself to stay calm. She’s been quietly watching and taking notes on Mon-El’s periodic interviews with Alex and J’onn since the day he returned, sneaking into the room where the footage is stored late at night once the number of agents walking the halls decreases, and the whole thing is beginning to take a toll on her. Although he’s been declared in excellent health by Alex and a team of doctors and aced every physical test thrown at him, he apparently recalls nothing whatsoever about his time on Earth.

Which hurts. A lot.

Because even though she knows he’s not doing any of this deliberately, the knowledge that she’s been wiped from his memory along with everything else rankles. It’s ridiculous of course, but in a way, it feels like she wasn’t _important_ enough for him to remember. Like by forgetting he ever knew her, he’s saying she was no more than a tiny little blip on his radar when he was so much more than that to her. And the necklace does nothing to contradict those feelings; he may still wear it, but it’s painfully obvious that it doesn’t really mean anything to him beyond a habit he’s uninclined to break.

Sighing heavily, she orders herself to stay objective and clicks the video on again.

_Any idea what those words mean?_

_No again. But I don’t like talking about them. I just have this feeling that I’m not supposed to._

_Not_ supposed _to?_

_Yeah. Like I shouldn’t go digging for answers, because there’s a very good reason I don’t remember anything._

_A method to the madness?_

_Exactly._

The tape continues with Alex asking random questions, but Kara tunes most of it out and slumps over on the desk, pillowing her cheek atop her folded arms. The worst part of this mess is that she’s beginning to believe he’s right about the amnesia-battling detective work. The more Alex and J’onn try to pry into Mon-El’s barely-there memories, the more perplexing the stories become, and the farther away from the truth they seem to get. She’s now starting to suspect that someone may have deleted his memories as a kind of safeguard (J’onn’s been cautioning against jumping to conclusions, but doesn’t seem to disagree), and is there really any nice reason why that kind of feat might be attempted in the first place? Mon-El’s already far more introspective than he was when he left—what if something horrible happened to him and someone with Martian-like psychic abilities decided to obliterate the past as a kindness? What if trying to make him remember triggers some inexplicably evil recollection that they’re all better off not knowing?

And…what if the best thing for him is never, ever knowing that he once loved her? That she loves—no, _loved_ not _loves;_ she’s got to start thinking of it in terms of past tense now because that absolutely can’t happen again—him?

Wearily, she raises her head for a moment to stare at the monitor as J’onn closes out the interview by suggesting Mon-El take advantage of the DEO’s enhanced training equipment. That’s the other reason she’s had to resort to skulking around lately—she never knows where or when they might cross paths, and she’s anxious to avoid being alone with him lest she accidentally let something slip. Alex has been hinting that it might be a good idea to just go ahead and get everything out into the clear, but Kara can’t agree. Whenever she imagines trying to impart _that_ piece of news to him, her mouth goes dry, her palms sweat, and her head gets fuzzy. He thinks he just met her. He _feels_ like he just met her. He won’t magically snap back to how he was before he left just because she tells him _Hey, so, you know how we told you we knew you before? Well, guess what? We were in love!_ Why in Rao’s name would she voluntarily make things uncomfortable for him as well as for her?

“Doesn’t make any sense,” she mutters, clicking to yesterday’s interview which she hasn’t yet seen. “Get over it already.”

“Kara?”

It’s the same voice she’s been listening to for the past hour, but the way it seemingly comes from thin air makes her start so violently that the chair turns over with a crash. _Damn it,_ she thinks, scrambling to plant herself in front of the monitor and stopping just short of spreading her cape out to block everything from sight. Of course he’d choose now to wander in; she’s like a magnet for problems of this sort, and now that his stealth skills have markedly improved, she’s really going to have to start listening harder so he can’t surprise her.

“Yeah?” she says in her best _nothing to see here_ tone, propping a hand on her hip with all the casualness of a cartoon character who’s whistling to hide their wrongdoing.

Mon-El frowns, his face a cross between amusement and confusion. “Are you watching…?”

“No,” she blurts immediately before remembering that the evidence is still playing right behind her. “Well, yes.” Straightening up, she clears her throat, crossing her arms over her chest as she decides to cling to whatever decorum she has left. “I…like to know what’s going on at the DEO, so I check up on stuff like this. At night.”

“Okay.” He sends her a half-smile, bewilderment still present as he steps fully into the room in his dark DEO-issue sweatpants and t-shirt. “Why?”

She lifts a shoulder, hating the way her breath quickens in response to that easygoing grin. “I’m nosy. And maybe a little bit of an insomniac.”

Mon-El laughs, the lighthearted sound forcing her to feign interest in a chipped fingernail. (Not that she _has_ a chipped nail since she is Supergirl, but she doesn’t think of that until she’s already committed to the action and by then it’s too late.) This is exactly what she’s been avoiding—any time spent around him comes with innumerable reminders of what used to be, and it’s horrible because they’re fast becoming reminders of what _can’t_ be.  She thought at first that she’d gotten him back, but the reality is that he’s no longer her Mon-El, and she can’t treat him like he is without inflicting actual pain on herself.

“For the record,” he remarks, walking over to lean against the edge of the desk beside her, “if you’re really this interested in what I don’t know, you can just ask me. Or sit in on the interviews instead of notetaking afterward in the dark.”

Kara shrugs again, pretending to inspect a spot on the floor so enough hair stays in her face to hide her expression. The light rising from the computers is dim and blue-toned enough that she doesn’t think he can see her reddening, but that doesn’t mean she’s willing to take the chance.

“I’m usually pretty busy,” she tries. It’s definitely not the truest truth ever told, but _wow_ it’s so much better than explaining she can’t bear to witness firsthand how much he’s forgotten. “I work outside the DEO, so sometimes I’m just not here when you’re being interviewed. And being Supergirl does take a lot of time.”

“Yeah, about that.” He shifts to look at her, his slouchy, relaxed demeanor somehow sending her nerves into overdrive. “I’m starting to feel very cooped up here without anything to do, and J’onn mentioned that you could occasionally use an extra body in the skies?”

“Meaning?” Kara says, hoping the answer isn’t what she thinks (but also hoping it is, because old habits apparently die hard and a traitorous part of her whispers that it would be really nice to spend time with him in a way that won’t jeopardize the safeguards she’s simply _got_ to put in place).

“Meaning if you think National City can stand another caped alien zipping through the atmosphere, would you allow me to join?” he answers, folding his arms to match hers. “If it helps, I come with my own suit, and I remember doing work similar to this wherever I came from.”

“You do?” Kara frowns, glancing back at the monitor as if it holds the answer to her question. “I thought you told Alex and J’onn that you couldn’t remember anything about…the suit?”

“Well.” He leans over, his shoulder bumping lightly into hers, and she freezes as he reaches behind her.

And turns up the volume on the damn video.

_Oh._ Holy Rao, she needs to get a grip on herself.

“If you’ll turn your attention to the screen,” he says dryly, making a sweeping gesture toward the monitor, “I’m just about to announce that some memories are now clearer, and that one of those memories pertains to the suit.”

“That makes…okay.” Silently cursing herself, Kara swiftly pauses the video. “Hey, like you said, if I want to find out, I can just ask you, right?” she jokes feebly.

“Right.” He lifts his brows once in a good-natured tease that mocks her with its impersonal familiarity. “Go ahead, then. Interrogate me, Supergirl.”

She huffs out a laugh, fingers tightening on her elbows as she struggles to ignore the playful, almost seductive tone in his voice. If she’s not careful, she’s going to give herself some serious bruises in an attempt to remain calm. “What—umm. What do you remember?” she asks carefully. “Not about the suit necessarily, just…in general.”

“Not much.” He smiles, but there’s a touch of grimness to it that goes straight to her heart. “It’s like trying to figure out what happened while you were asleep, and who knows?” He lifts a shoulder, the smile now an openly-wry smirk. “Maybe I was. The way I remember things…it isn’t very consistent. At all. You know, sometimes I’ll hear something in my head, or I’ll say something and know it’s true even if I don’t have any idea how I know it or why I said it. Sometimes I see something and it just…” He trails off, scowling as he makes a frustrated motion with his hands. “I don’t know. It’ll trigger a memory, but not even that, really—if anything, it’s more like the memory of a memory.”

“Like a hole,” Kara says, scrunching her hand into a fist since her instinct to reach out and touch him is increasing by the second. “You don’t know _what_ was there, just…”

“Just that something was. Exactly.” He laughs, the sound closer to a sigh, though whether it’s from exasperation or despondency she can’t tell. “There’re a few patches here and there that I can see pretty clearly if I close my eyes and focus on them hard. But they don’t make any sense when I try to piece them together.”

Kara takes a deep breath. _I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know_.

“What kinds of patches do you see?” she asks anyway, turning to face him. She’s now actively inflicting misery on herself, but she can’t help it. A stubborn part of her needs to know—hopes that maybe if she has a better idea what’s going on inside his head, she can let go of all the indecision that’s bogging her down. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” she adds, afraid she’ll seem prying.

“No, it’s okay.” His voice is quieter now, almost distant as he stares at the blank wall across from them. “It’s just that what I remember—there’s a lot of stuff that’s just...”

Is he hesitating because he’s reluctant to explain, or is he organizing his thoughts? She isn’t sure, and her nerves aren’t responding well to the uncertainty. He may not be the Mon-El she lost, but her need to know what’s going on with him is every bit as intense as it would be if he were, and she thinks that maybe that’s her problem—if she can just establish where those differences she sees in him stem from, she can stop the hollowness from taking over when she least expects it and reclaim the relatively calm state she was in before he turned up.

“Does it hurt?” she offers at last, curiosity—or possibly just desperation—giving her courage. “When you try to think about it, I mean?”

Mon-El’s head swivels toward her so quickly that it makes her shrink back. “Why?” he says, eyes narrowing as he studies her face. “Should it?”

“I…don’t know,” she hedges, waving an awkward hand. “I was just wondering if, well, if there was any particular reason why you maybe have had problems with this? Like, a—a mental block or something?”

“Yeah, your sister suggested that too.” There’s a glimmer of suspicion in his eyes as he speaks, and he taps his fingers against his arms with an air of growing impatience. “Kinda makes me think I’m missing more than just a few memories. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

_Oh, Rao._

Fidgeting under the scrutiny, Kara forces a smile. Why this is a thousand times more difficult than taking down fifty armed-to-the-teeth bad guys, she’ll never understand, but it is what it is.

“Look, I just want to figure out what’s going on,” she tells him in the calmest tone she can muster. “I’m...sifting the evidence. Trying to understand this better.”

“Yeah, me too,” he agrees, but there’s a skepticism underlying the statement that lets her know she’s doing a pitiful job of convincing him. “I can’t help but notice though, that everyone keeps saying things like that, but no one’s willing to answer any questions I have about what happened before.”

“Well, this _is_ a secret government—”

“‘A secret government organization.’ Yes, I know,” he interrupts, his voice fairly dripping with distrust now. “Please don’t. I’ve been fed so many different versions of that line since I got here that I know better than to believe it.”

“What makes you think it’s not true?” she inquires, dropping her gaze when the prolonged eye contact between them becomes too intense. “I mean, this place is about as clandestine an organization as you can get. Preserving secrecy is kind of a baseline requirement.”

Mon-El snorts out a laugh. “Oh, I don’t doubt the hush-hush part of it,” he says lightly. “What I’m not buying is that ‘preserving secrecy’ is the reason I can’t get answers, and I’d appreciate it if instead of wasting a lot of time beating around the bush and asking me about things that I _don’t_ have memories of, people would just come right out and tell me what it is that everyone’s thinking but no one wants to say.”

He sounds so frustrated now that she risks a small peek at him from under her eyelashes, habit urging her to lay a hand on his shoulder. But the rules have changed, and she can’t do things like that anymore—which she thankfully realizes a split second before her fingers contact his arm, so she yanks her hand away and rubs at the back of her neck.

“What do they keep asking you about that you don’t remember?” she asks to take her mind off the near-blunder which, to her everlasting relief, he doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too busy glowering resentfully up at the ceiling. “Random stuff, or specific?”

He rolls his eyes. “Both. I assumed we’d be mostly discussing how I got here, but no. It’s the suit. The ring. This…”

His hand drifts to a spot just below his collarbones, and Kara’s breath falters as his fist closes around an invisible object. The necklace. He’s talking about the necklace, and now what is she supposed to do? Run? Panic? Ask him about it, and damn the consequences? There’s no time for her to decide on a definitive course of action however, because Mon-El’s already regarding her warily again.

“What?” she blurts out.

“How do I know you?” he asks, still squinting at her. “And don’t bother with the ‘we still don’t know who you are’ thing. I’ve seen enough of this place to be sure that I’d be in a maximum security cell right now if there were any doubts about me not being the Mon-El you all knew. Clearly you guys think I’m him, but what does that even mean? Who or what am I supposed to be, and why do I want to trust a whole group that I can tell doesn’t fully trust me?”

Kara’s stomach tightens. The intensity on his face and in the questions as he delivers them are new to her; she’s never experienced this level of seriousness from him, and in a way, it’s heartbreaking. When she sat there with him, smack dab in the middle of the DEO, he seemed so like his old self that it hurt. But the way he’s behaving now, all guarded and suspicious…it’s worse. Especially because he’s only increasing her confusion—one moment she thinks she’d give anything to make him remember her, the next, she’s relieved he can’t.

“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” she mutters. Her voice trips a little over the words, but it’s not like she can do anything to stop it. “It’s just that…it’s complicated.”

“Can you _un_ complicate it, then?” he says. “Please?”

She almost laughs. _Oh, if only._

“Why does J’onn find it, and I quote, _advisable_ for me to talk to you about going out in the field?” he presses. “I’ve seen him consult with you before to get your opinion on something. He doesn’t send others in his place, so why me? What did I do?”

“Well, nothing horrible, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she says, linking her fingers together and placing them in her lap because she has to have something besides the upper part of her arms to grip.

“Meaning?” he drawls, and she’s reminded with a flash of irritation how infuriatingly uncompromising he can be.

“Meaning you weren’t on our Most Wanted list,” she responds, her voice sharper than necessary. “You fell to Earth in a pod, J’onn and I found you, and we brought you back here. That’s where we met you and you met us.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.” Mouth twisted, he gives her a small smirk. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you didn’t like me, originally?”

_Understatement of the century,_ Kara thinks, shifting her line of sight to his left ear rather than his face. She doesn’t need to see any more of his little idiosyncrasies. They’re not at all helpful, because despite almost nine months of actively trying to push them to the back of her mind, they still possess the ability to eradicate her composure.

“You and I…” She points back and forth between them. “We didn’t get along at first. I couldn’t stand you, and you weren’t too thrilled about me, either.” She can’t even begin to fathom why she’s telling him this part, but the words pour out anyway, as unstoppable as water from a broken faucet. “I don’t know if you remember any of this, but we come from planets that hated each other, and that caused a lot of problems. Especially for me.”

“Different planets, not friends.” He nods again, forehead wrinkling. “Got it. What changed?”

Rao. He really doesn’t remember any of this, does he?

Kara crushes a wad of cape in her fist. Contradictory emotions—sadness, vexation, relief—ambush her simultaneously as she again realizes the scope of his memory loss, and she stands up, unable to remain where she can see his every move out of the corner of her eye.

“Us, really,” she informs him, scuffing the heels of her boots along the ground while she wanders around the room. “You and me. We eventually got past it. Became friends, started working together…had quite a few arguments, and…yeah.” She halts, wincing as recollections of the most important part (the part she _has_ to omit) smash through her mental barricade.

“ _And_?” Mon-El prompts.

_And then I kind of fell in love with you and you kind of fell in love with me and it was great for a while. I was happy._ We _were happy. We got through a breakup, a near-death musical experience on a whole other Earth, your family trying to drag you back to a place you didn’t want to return to, and if I weren’t such an idiot, I’d have kept all that from happening in the first place._

“And then Earth was invaded, and the only way to end the invasion was to put lead in the atmosphere, so I had to send you off to keep you alive,” she finishes curtly. The horror of the moment weighs on her yet again, but she ignores it and plows on because she absolutely refuses to break down in front of him. “Your pod, it just—we had no way of knowing what happened to you, because it completely disappeared off our radar. Winn looked, I looked, but there was nothing. As far as any of us could tell, you were…”

“Dead,” he supplies casually.

“Yeah.” She bobs her head, the muscles in her jaw so taut that she worries they might actually snap. “That’s…what we thought.”

“So that’s it, then?”

She turns to see that he still hasn’t moved from his spot. “Yeah,” she fibs. “That’s it.”

Mon-El rubs his chin in silence for a second or two before re-crossing his arms. “All right,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s more information than I’ve gotten out of all the others put together, so…thank you. Gives me something to go on.”

“Of course.” Propping her hands on her hips, she braces herself for what she knows she has to say. “As for the field work…” _Oh, just get it over with, you big baby._ She pinches her lips together tightly for a second before puffing out a long breath. “My job—my calling, even—is to protect this city. Doing that requires a lot of effort, and it would help to have an extra set of hands now and then. So if you can guarantee me that your suit is in fact bulletproof—”

“It is.”

“—and if you promise to always keep some of that serum-antidote thing they found in your pod on hand in case of dire lead emergencies…” she continues, lifting her eyebrows.

He rolls his eyes and makes a slow, extremely sarcastic cross mark on his chest. “I promise.”

“Then I’m fine with it.”

The lie rolls off her tongue smoothly, but she doesn’t regret it for a second. Inside, where no one can see, she’s allowed to crack and fragment; outwardly, it’s imperative that she seem calm and in charge. Besides, is it even a lie if she’s telling it in the hopes that saying it aloud will help make it come true?

“Let me know as soon as you’ve officially cleared, all the tests” she adds. “Then we can sort out a plan of action, and get to work.”

“I will,” he says, finally standing. He still doesn’t seem at ease, but since she can tell he’s making an effort to seem comfortable, she decides not to press the matter. “I appreciate the concern, and I’ll do my best to pull my weight. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem. I—we’re glad to have you back.”

“Are you?” he asks unexpectedly.

Even though he hasn’t taken so much as a step toward her, Kara’s entire body tenses.

“Of course.” The answer’s a little stiff, but under the circumstances, she doesn’t think it’s all that bad. “Why would you think we’re not?”

He hesitates, then gives his head a small shake. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“No, not ‘never mind,’” she interjects, moving to block his path as he starts toward the door. “What is it?”

Mon-El skids to a halt about an eighth of a second before they collide, and Kara curses inwardly. By going to cut him off, she’s paved the way for trouble; at this short distance he has to tuck his chin awkwardly just to see her, and it’s doing all sorts of unpleasantly pleasant, composure-shattering things to her. For a long, painful moment that’s akin to torture, she focuses her energies on breathing and holding her ground while they stare at one another. The silence between them is of the heavy, dead-air variety, and though she’s perilously close to overflowing with everything she wants to say, her stubborn brain keeps shrieking at her that what she wants to say and what she _should_ say don’t mesh.

“What. Is it?” she repeats at last, her voice steady but fainter than she’d like. “If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to actually talk to me.”

The look he gives her is odd—simultaneously searching, suspicious, and amused. “I’m not sure what it is yet,” he answers. “Guess I’ll have to wait and see.”

“Yeah, because that’s not cryptic,” Kara mutters, gasping when she realizes she’s said it out loud. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I…meant to think that, not say it.”

He nods, a spark of humor in his eyes though his face remains solemn. “I gathered. Is…that something you tend to do a lot?”

“Sometimes,” she replies, focusing her gaze on the zig-zaggy stitching around the neck of his shirt so she doesn’t have to deal with the distraction of more eye contact. “But actually, speaking without thinking used to be more your thing than mine.”

“Yeah, _that_ I do know.” To her surprise, he lets loose an actual laugh. “Which is exactly why this could be very interesting.”

“What could?” she asks, frowning.

“Working together.”

He folds his arms again, regardless of the fact that there’s barely room for that kind of stance—one wrong move by either of them now, and that giant ‘S’ on her chest is going to be rubbing up against his forearms. Or maybe one right move? She’s not sure which. Every sense she possesses (except the one preceded by the word _common,_ of course) is elevated by his nearness, and it’s messing with her head. If she stands here much longer, she’s going to lose any objectivity she has left and do something stupid.

Hastily, before impulse has a chance to overcome reason, she takes a step back.

“Speaking of working together, h-have you given any thoughts to a name, yet?” she asks, her voice perhaps an octave higher than usual. “I mean, ha, you can’t have _Supergirl,_ obviously, but—”

 “Valor,” he says, then shuts his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. The absorbed, distant look is back in his eyes, but otherwise, his expression is as blank as if a switch has been flipped to shut it off and it piques her curiosity almost unbearably.

“Another memory?” she ventures after a bit when he still hasn’t spoken.

“Yeah.” He nods, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “I think…no, I know that was my name. Don’t know how but I do.”

She watches him wrestle with things she can’t see then, surer than ever that the right decision once again stands in direct opposition to her personal desires. It’s so, _so_ tempting to blurt it all out and have everything in the open; of course it is. But has she really forgotten how much it hurt to lose him after she finally allowed herself to care? Is she honestly going to dump a history he has no recollection of on him just to see if he’ll react the way her Mon-El once did when she knows in her gut that she’s not entirely willing to risk that kind of pain again?

_No_. She isn’t. She calls herself Supergirl, and she’s gotten through these months by leaning heavily on that part of herself. She can keep doing it for as long as she has to. It’s just a matter of trying.

“Okay, so…Valor, hmm?” Kara says, rolling the name around experimentally on her tongue. Cisco Ramon might not approve, but in her opinion, it’s kind of nice. “As superhero names go…it’s not bad.”

A slight smirk hitches up the side of his mouth. “Just not in the same class as _Supergirl,_ huh?”

“Well, hey.” She laughs in spite of herself, pretending not to notice as he moves in the direction of what’s either her or the door. “Nothing’s ever perfect. Sometimes the bad guys get away, sometimes the humans think you’re a villain, sometimes you get slapped with a kinda-sucky code name…it’s just the lot and life of a superhero.”

“True,” he says, tilting his head as he comes to a stop in front of her, once again close enough to make her nervous but too far away to make any retreat on her part seem unsuspicious. “Anything along those lines I should be aware of before I start helping you save the day?”

“Oh, no, nothing much,” she assures him hurriedly, scratching a nose-itch that doesn’t exist to disguise the fact that she reached up out of habit to adjust the glasses she’s not wearing. “Just…expect a lot of interruptions, weird crimes, and to miss or forget all sorts of important things.”

He chuckles, tapping his head. “Yeah. Think I’ve got that last part covered.”

“Right.” She bites the inside of her cheek, scolding herself for bringing that up again. “Of course.”

“And speaking of forgetting things…” he adds, raising his eyebrows.

Kara gulps, her mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah?” she says, trying to appear unruffled even as her hands ball into sweaty fists at her side and her eyes lock onto the little glimpse of silver she can see around his throat.

Mon-El pauses. Without warning, his hand moves toward the side of her face, and it’s like she can’t breathe. Even though his fingertips barely skate over the top of her ear, she feels the contact all the way down to her toes, and for one wild moment she wonders if he’s been lying about not remembering like he did once upon a time. But he’s retracting his hand now, and suddenly everything makes sense.

“Pencils,” he says, the smirk widening as he holds the little yellow stick in front of her nose. “Are these things made with lead here, or not? I can’t seem to recall.”

“Oh! Right. You were just…yeah, no. No, you’re all good there. They used to be made of lead, but now it’s just graphite. Which is safe for you, so no big deal.” She paints on a smile, refusing to wonder whether that awful feeling in the pit of her stomach originates from embarrassment or disappointment. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…I should probably get back to watching my future partner’s interrogation tapes. Just in case something got overlooked.”

“All right, then.” He gives her a careless sort of salute that somehow causes her face to heat in a way it hasn’t for what seems like forever. “Let me know if you come across anything interesting.”

“Will do,” she answers.

The urge to pivot as he passes her on his way out the door is strong, and though she knows it’s not the smartest decision in the universe, she gives in anyway. Which is a mistake, because he’s turned, too, and now he’s grinning at her again in a way she doesn’t really know how to interpret—the borderline smugness makes her think he’s laughing at her, but there’s an element of uncertainty in there that’s a little unsettling.

“See you tomorrow?” she says quickly to disguise her confusion.  

“Yeah,” he responds, releasing a strange sort of laugh as he shakes his head. “See you tomorrow, Kara.”

In a move so swift that she almost misses it, he winks. Then he’s gone as suddenly as he appeared, and it takes every bit of strength Kara has left to not react while his footsteps fade into the distance. The instant she’s sure he’s not going to pop back in unexpectedly, she sags against the wall, her head falling back against the cool, smooth surface with a thump.

“You know better, you idiot,” she whispers, hating the way his smile lingers in her brain. “You know better. You. Know. _Better._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter titled after "Distance" by Christina Perri. (If you've never heard it, it's beautiful. Just saying.)  
> *Okay. As usual, after saying the updates for this fic shouldn't be that far apart, I got busy with work and the World Series, and got no writing/editing done until this weekend, hence why this post is so late. (It's also why I'm an episode behind on Supergirl.)  
> The next chapter won't take as long to post, but because I have a lot of evening events this week, it'll most likely be a week or so between updates unless something changes, not 5 days.  
> *I'm purposely leaving Mon-El's memories vague because I think the story works best if neither Kara nor Mon-El is exactly sure about what he did during his stint as a hero. (I also don't know enough about the Legion of Superheroes to be comfortable with inventing exploits...it feels too much like writing a research paper and citing wikipedia as my primary source.)  
> *I'm personally really looking forward to seeing how changed Mon-El is when he returns in the show. I suspect he'll be a lot stuffier, so I'm hoping they'll play up his sarcasm. I still remember how much I loved his first face-offs with Kara in S2, and I think that kind of "I thought I was a dangerous killer" attitude could be fun, so that's what I decided to go with here.  
> *I'm falling asleep at the moment, so if anything's confusing/weird, let me know! Also, I'm going to be checking comments from last chapter and my other Karamel fic later on today; I promise I'm not ignoring anyone.  
> *Thanks for reading/commenting, and hope everyone's doing good! (I've been avoiding tumblr for a while because I'm behind on shows, so I feel very out of the loop. akane171, I'm definitely going to need some song recs ;D) Happy Supergirl Monday, and I hope you all have a wonderful day <3


	4. Come On Get Higher (Two And A Half More Months)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Kara and Mon-El/Supergirl and Valor have been working together for a couple months, the weirdness is beginning to mess with Kara, and she once again starts resorting to avoidance. What concerns her is that Mon-El may be starting to pick up on that.

_Left, right, left, right, cross, jab, uppercut. Left, right, left, right, cross, jab, uppercut._

Gritting her teeth, Kara pours energy into her punches as she circles the dingy, specially-reinforced bag at a speed that ought to wear her out. She originally came down here to blow off a large amount of unwelcome steam, but she’s been at it almost half an hour now and has yet to break much of a sweat.

Which, while it's great for her vanity, is terrible for her overall peace of mind.

Though she hates to admit it, the truth is that her stronger-than-steel punching bag isn’t a challenging enough target, and it infuriates her because it’s been a slow month crime-wise and she desperately needs a good distraction. This weird new partnership with her ex-boyfriend (who she never actually broke up with and who _still_ doesn’t know he was her boyfriend to begin with) is beginning to stretch her to the breaking point, and she’s about out of ideas. He’s forever doing something that takes her back to a moment she can’t bear to remember, and the worst of it is that he’s starting to notice her involuntary reactions more and more. She thought—or hoped, rather—that working with him would keep him busy enough to forestall some of his tougher questions, but the more comfortable he’s gotten with her, the less inclined he is to accept her vague answers, and the less-inclined he is to accept her vague answers, the harder it becomes for her to focus. Her only defense seems to be changing the subject or leaving, so that’s what she’s been doing. Exclusively.

For instance, a little over a week ago, they had their first _real_ crime in a while—a massive-scale armed robbery involving several military grade assault rifles, ten million dollars, a bunch of sixth graders on a field trip to National City’s mint, and one antique tank. It wasn’t an especially difficult attempt to foil, but while she was alternating between disarming-slash-punching bad guys and flying civilians out of the way, she heard two kids screaming for help and went to yank the slab of cement trapping them out of the way. When her back was turned, one of the thugs produced a kryptonite blade from out of nowhere, so Mon-El jumped in and knocked the guy into a wall…prompting a sarcastic ‘Oh great, look at Romeo’ comment from the bitter little human that made Mon-El sort of freeze.

The incident and her partner’s response to it thoroughly alarmed Kara, so to steer them clear of dangerous waters, she did her best to maintain a steady stream of conversation all the way back to the DEO, and since then, she’s done everything in her power to avoid him. 

Hence her current location: the old training room seven floors below ground that no one uses anymore because the lighting is watery, the mats are the worst—thin, funky-smelling rectangles with dried-out pieces of foam escaping in all the torn places—and most of the equipment is extra-strong but dinged-up from her earliest superhero-training attempts. And speaking of dinged-up…

She groans as the old bag finally splits, the tough material caving to the force of a too- spirited jab.

“Of course,” she mutters, hands propped on her hips as she surveys the traitorous piece of equipment. “Why not? It’s not like I _need_ to practice my punches or anything.” Hauling her foot up, she delivers a swift front-kick to the bag, relishing the swishy crash it makes as it sails across the room and bursts all the way open, spilling sand and who-knows-what else everywhere. “It’s not like I could use the exercise after days of literally _nothing._ ”

Still grumbling under her breath, she turns her attention to the dull blocks of metal that dangle on steel cables from the ceiling. It’s one of those rig-job contraptions J’onn and the DEO dreamt up to give her a challenge, but now she’s no longer in the mood for punching. Instead, she sets them swinging and heatvisions the first five in line until a polite cough from the doorway interrupts her, and she whirls around to find Mon-El watching her with raised eyebrows.

“What?” she demands, the amusement she reads on his face adding to her annoyance and lending her a courage she might otherwise have been unable to muster. “Please tell me you came all the way down here to tell me I’m needed for an emergency?”

In lieu of an answer he grins, lifting his arms in a shrug.

“Yeah, I thought not.” This time, she melts through three blocks. “Stupid slow days. Where’s a good old-fashioned car chase when you need one?”

“You do know there’s a perfectly good room several floors above this, don’t you?” he asks, jerking his head toward the hallway. “One with things that will actually fight you in return, not just sit there and disintegrate while you attack it?”

“I do know that, yes.” Tossing her hair back, she shoots down another group of blocks. “But demolishing _that_ equipment is frowned upon since it’s so expensive, so I thought this was a better option.”

“Really?”

She frowns at the speculation in his tone. “Yes, really. Why?”

“I don’t know.” He drags a toe through some sand, scraping it into a neat little pile by his foot. “Just…wondering why you suddenly feel the need to hang out in this kind of location and break things. Besides stupid slow days, of course.”

Kara pauses just before heatvisioning the last few blocks. “Okay,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You obviously came down here for a reason, so if it _wasn’t_ to tell me about some kind of emergency, what is it?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” he inquires. “Maybe I just wanted to catch up.”

“On what?” she wants to know, waving a hand around the room. “Food? The weather? How much gel Winn’s using in his hair these days? We haven’t had anything to catch up _on_!”

Mon-El starts to say something, then closes his mouth with an audible click. “Fair enough,” he comments casually, glancing up at the charred strands of metal hanging from the ceiling. “Let me rephrase: can you use a sparring partner?”

She hesitates, biting the insides of her cheeks. Could she _use_ a sparring partner? Yes. Yes times a bazillion. She’s got a lot of pent-up energy that needs expending, and these inanimate objects are doing nothing except making her wish she had more of them to annihilate.

Does she _want_ a sparring partner?

No. Not if it’s him, because the one thing about him that remains absolutely unchanged is his uncanny ability to distinguish when she’s got something on her mind, and she’s had it with people analyzing her every move. Alex has asked her four times today if she’s all right, Winn’s asked her three, and if he starts doing that too…

“I don’t want to interrupt you or anything,” she tries at length. “If you’ve got something you’re in the middle of?”

His eyebrows rise again. “Weren’t we just discussing the slowness of slow days?”

Oh, _right._

“Okay, you know what?” Kara says loudly before he has a chance to question her further. “Sure. Why not? Let’s spar. Give it your best go, but don’t complain when I—jeez!”

She forgot. He can fly now, too.

It’s a costly mistake, because his initial attack nearly knocks the wind out of her like it did when he first returned, but she recovers quickly and next thing she knows, she’s locked into the most challenging sparring session of her entire life (including the times she was sans powers so Alex could train her). Mon-El appears to have every single move she’s ever taught him memorized, but he executes them faster, cleaner, and with more force than she remembers, so it takes far more concentration and application of skill than she expected to hold herself in check. And since finesse has never been her favorite area to begin with—she’d much rather just deliver one hard knockout punch, which won’t work in this scenario since this is only supposed to be for practice—it’s really starting to piss her off.  Plus, he doesn’t seem to be getting at all irritated by the escalating intensity of the bout. If anything, he appears to be enjoying himself, and _Rao,_ she wants to wipe that cocky grin off his face. By the time he finally, _finally_ stutter-steps during a retreat and she’s able to catch him off-balance and knock him down, she’s more winded than she cares to admit.

“Give up?” she demands, hands on hips as she stands over him. “If we were keeping score, your goose would basically be cooked by now, so you might as well.”

“Give up?” he laughs from his spot on the floor. “Yeah, you wish, Supergirl.”

Quicker than she anticipates, his foot flashes out and sweeps both her legs out from under her, landing her on her back in the wink of an eye. And thanks to her stupid cape, which somehow tangles around her left foot and arm, he’s able to pin her long enough to win a wrestling match.

“Damn it,” she growls, spitting out a mouthful of hair regardless of the fact that he’s close enough to have to turn his head to avoid flying saliva. “That doesn’t count.”

Mon-El coughs. “Um, yes it does. Give up?” he says, looking and sounding far too pleased with himself.

“For your information, _I_ slipped _, you_ did not beat me,” she retorts, squirming to get a leg free so she can get some leverage. “I’ll be on my feet in no time.”

“Oh, right.” He raises an eyebrow when she starts muttering resentfully in Kryptonian. “ _Well,_ while we’re waiting for no time to arrive so you can get back on your feet…any chance you feel like telling me what’s bugging you?”

“Nothing’s bugging me.”

“Okay.” He nods slowly. “So…you’re not mad. You’re not upset. You’re definitely not avoiding me at all.”

His factual tone and wide-eyed agreeableness make her want to slug him, but with only half her body free, she knows better than to attempt it. He’s calling her bluff on purpose; she’s almost sure of it, but why now she doesn’t know, and honestly, she doesn’t care. She just wants to get loose so she can kick his ass and walk off with her head held high.

Hopefully before anything untoward happens.

“I-I’m not,” she insists, sputtering out the words. He’s kind of gross and sweaty and disgusting after the workout and so is she, but he’s also so close that her brain refuses to focus on anything practical like complaining about it or assembling a coherent argument, and her rising panic is like a cage that’s shrinking around her. “It’s not. I just…I don’t…” She kicks vigorously, freeing her boot at last. “ _Ugh._ I just don’t like making mistakes when I fight, all right?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong?” he asks with exaggerated calmness, bearing down more heavily on her when she moves her foot up to try and flip him.

“I said, _nothing,_ ” she shoots back, raising her voice to keep it steady. “Now, are you going to sit here and dissect my behavior, or defend yourself? You can’t do both.”

“I beg to differ,” he answers, shifting his knee just enough to counter her movement as she wriggles to her left. “Look, Kara, I’m not blind. I’m definitely never going to be the smartest guy in the room, but I can tell you’re upset with me about something, and I just want to know if it’s anything I can fix, since—”

“ _Fix?_ ”

All at once, her panic’s replaced by about a year’s worth of absolute fury, and she throws him off her so hard that even flying straight up into the air can’t keep him from smashing into the wall.

“So I’m guessing that’s a _no,_ then?” he says, flicking a little piece of concrete off his shoulder.

“Mon-El, this isn’t something that can _be_ ‘fixed!’” she shouts, making angry little air quotes with her fingers because she’s just too mad, too sad, too _something_ to come up with anything else. “And even if it were, you couldn’t do it—you don’t know what’s been broken in the first place!”

“Yeah, you’re right; I don’t, but if you’d just _tell_ me instead of dodging questions or storming off all the time, I would,” he counters, crossing his arms as he lands.

“I do not ‘storm off,’” Kara retorts, making another set of angry quotes.

“Uh, yeah.” He raises an eyebrow. “You kind of do. Cape sweeps and all. Which, while we’re on the subject, is a _smidge_ melodramatic, in case you were wondering.”

“No. That is not true,” she informs him, propping her hands on her hips. “I mean the, the storming off thing, not the cape thing, but you know what, now that I’m thinking about it, it is none of your business how I handle my cape anyway, okay? You do hero-stuff your way, I’ll do hero-stuff mine.”

He holds up his hands in a defensive gesture, lips twitching. “I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, well—go and ‘just say’ it somewhere else, will you?” she bites out, turning her back on him with a deliberately ostentatious cape-swirl.

“You see?” he drawls. “There it is, right there. No answer to the question, a huge cape sweep, and one good old-fashioned storm-off coming right up.”

She stops short, jaw and fists clenching in unison at his sardonic tone. “For your information, this is _not_ me storming off,” she informs him, folding her arms as she swing back around to glare at him. “It’s me leaving before I say something I know I’ll regret.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” He takes a step toward her, a second brow going up to join the first as his eyes bore into hers. “Just out of curiosity, how sure are you you’ll regret whatever it is you’re trying to not say?”

Kara’s stomach flutters, the intense scrutiny in his gaze reminding her of countless moments she’d rather not relive right this instant, but she maintains her scowl anyway. “Very sure.”

“Huh.” He tilts his head, still walking toward her. “I don’t think I believe you.”

“Oh, really?” Her snort echoes off the bare walls. “Well, I guess that’s your problem then, isn’t it pal?”

“Maybe,” he answers, re-crossing his arms over his chest. Chin jutting out, he gives her a hard stare. “But to be honest, I think my problem concerns you a little bit, too.”

“Yeah?” she inquires in the snottiest tone she’s capable of. “And…how exactly is you not believing me _my_ problem?”

He lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. “Eh. Call me crazy, but I think there’s a lot of things you’re not telling me.”

Oh, Rao.

“Seriously?” She points at him, her laugh shrill and incredulous. “You’re telling me that? _You_ are actually gonna stand there and tell _me_ that _I’m_ keeping things from you? Are you _kidding_ me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re going to be grouchy and full of italics about this…”

“No, no.” Holding up her hands in an exaggeratedly placating gesture, she shakes her head. “By all means, _partner_. Please. Tell me what it is that makes you think I’m keeping things from you. I am _all_ ears.”

“Well.” Mon-El shrugs again, clearly choosing to ignore her sarcasm. “For one thing, I’m pretty sure I know what you look like naked, and since I don’t have any form of x-ray vision, that—”

“ _WHAT?_ ” Kara shrieks, shock exploding over her. Oh, God. Of all the things to remember, of course, _of course_ that’s the one thing he can recall! “How the hell do you know that?”

He holds out his hands, palms up. “That’s what I’ve been hoping you’ll tell me. I _shouldn’t_ know, but I _do,_ and quite frankly, that seems a little odd considering everything I’ve been told about life here before I went away and came back.”

She glares at him, resisting the impulse to stick her nose in the air and pull her cape around herself like some fussy Victorian grandmother. It won’t ease her embarrassment—if embarrassment is actually what she’s feeling; right now it’s hard to be sure since her unruly heart keeps making hopeful leaps and inappropriate suggestions at the worst times—and anyway, even if he could see her now, it’s not like there’s anything he hasn’t seen before.

“You know what?” she snaps at length. “Forget it. I’m not doing this, and definitely not with you. You can solve your own mysteries, _Valor._ Think what you want, interpret stuff however you want…I don’t care.”

Ignoring his loud sigh, she shoves past him and heads for the stacked up mats in the back corner of the room to grab her water bottle. Turning her back on him, she drops down onto the stiff mass of cushions, the urge to cry abrupt and almost unbearable. She doesn’t want to bark at him like this. To practically kick him away from her. Not at all. But it’s easier and better than caving and telling him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, because it’s less painful in the long run for both of them if he never knows the full story and they keep their distance from each other. She’s positive, because she’s thought about it a lot, and it’s what makes the most sense. It does.

But as usual, Mon-El seems to have a completely different opinion on the subject. Instead of leaving like any sane being would after being yelled at like that, he follows her over to the mats and sits down beside her, turning so that they’re facing one another.

“Kara,” he says, his voice soft but insistent.

“What?” she answers in the most belligerent tone she can manage. “Did you forget to mention that you also picture the rest of the DEO without clothes, or is it just me?”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed or offended you. It wasn’t my intent.”

She shrugs, still angling her head away but watching him out of her peripherals. “It’s fine. Like I said, I don’t care.”

“I just need to understand what’s going on,” he explains, scratching the side of his face in a gesture so familiar that she has to close her eyes. “More than I originally thought I would. There’s a lot that’s happened since I got here that doesn’t add up, and just because I don’t talk about it doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed.”

“How so?” she says, and bites her tongue straightaway. This is _not_ the time for encouraging topics like this one.

“Well...” Reaching inside the neck of his shirt, he pulls out the little pendant and holds it up between them, waiting until he has her full attention. “There’s this, for instance.”

Kara’s grip tightens on the water bottle until she’s afraid to move for fear of denting it and giving away her tension. “What about it?” she asks. But even to her the question sounds unconvincing, and Mon-El doesn’t even blink.

“Why do I wear this?” he says quietly.

She shakes her head, trying to shrug even as her throat swells and her eyes fill. “I…I don’t know. I guess because it means something to you. Like—a lucky rabbit’s foot, or something.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out a laugh. “I considered that possibility myself the first time I remember seeing it. But I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I don’t think that’s the answer. I mean, why do I never take it off? Why do I hate the idea of losing it? I couldn’t remember my own name when I got here, but even then I knew I didn’t want anyone to take this from me. That I was ready to fight anyone who tried. Why would I feel like that about a necklace?”

Kara takes a long, noisy slurp of water, tilting her head back in the hopes of making a few of the tears recede. “Maybe you really like your jewelry,” she suggests sarcastically, keeping her head twisted carefully away from him as the clouds in her eyes turn to rain and begin dripping down her cheeks. “It’s been known to happen. Or maybe you’re just too superstitious for your own good, and you should probably try to fix that soon because that’s no kind of way to live, and if you’re going to go out there and defend the city, you shouldn’t be...”

“Kara.” He reaches out and tucks a clump of hair back behind her ear, his touch feathery-light.

“What?” she says again, but this time even she can barely hear it, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to keep from sobbing because oh Rao, she’s missed that touch and she knows it’s stupid to let herself want it the way she does.

He leans over a little, trying to get her to look at him again, but she can’t, she just can’t. His nearness is too much and not enough all at the same time, and if she looks at him right now she’ll lose whatever scraps of control she has left.

“You gave it to me,” he says gently. “Didn’t you?”

For a second she considers denying it. Longs to, even. But then wordlessly, she nods, burying her face in her hands to stave off the utter collapse she feels looming over her.

“It was mine,” she confesses. “My—my mother’s. I just wanted…” Her voice fades, drowned by the lump in her throat. “It was supposed to keep you safe.”

“Kara,” he whispers. “What were we?”

A wave of old memories surges through her mind at the question, and she reins in a sob as the bittersweet ache consumes her again. “We were friends…”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. Every time I ask.” He moves some more hair out of her face, his fingers grazing her cheek this time and sending a familiar ripple of shivers down her spine. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. A loud, incriminating sniffle escapes, and she clenches her jaw hard in defense against a steadily-impending loss of control. “We were.”

“Okay.” His voice is still soft, but she can sense the stubbornness in it. “Okay. But if that’s true, then why don’t I feel like this with anyone else?”

Kara flinches. “Like what?” she asks, too afraid of the mist filling her eyes and the butterflies filling her stomach to lift her head.

“I don’t know. Like…I want to tell you all about random things that aren’t important just because. Like I can’t stand seeing you upset, or hurt, or worried.” He wipes away a crooked stripe of tears that have trickled down to her chin, his thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth. “Like I want to kiss you at least a thousand times a day.”

“ _No_.” The word emerges muffled, its vehemence half-smothered by the confusion that engulfs her when she hears the tenderness in his voice. “Mon-El, don’t. Please,” she begs, not even sure what she’s asking for as she looks up and sees him staring at her again with that half-puzzled, half-knowing expression, his face so close to hers now that it’s partly in shadow. “You can’t say that.”

“Why not?” he breathes. “It’s true.”

Why not. Why not? She knows there’s a reason, a very good one, one she really ought to articulate because it’ll keep her safe or something, but it just won’t come to mind with him right there, with his gaze oscillating between eyes and her lips so many times that it’s all she can do to restrain herself. She’s wanted this for far too long—craved it, even—yet now that it’s so close to happening, she can’t help but distrust and fear it. She’s been down this road before; she knows every damn bump and pothole in it, and only a complete idiot would let herself believe that _this_ time things might change. That _this_ time, she won’t end up getting hurt.

_Fool me twice._

“Because you don’t even know me!” she blurts out finally. “Not anymore. I’m—I’m like a stranger to you, and you’re like a stranger to me. That’s just the way it is now.”

_The way it has to be._

“Mhmm.” He nods as if agreeing, but he’s wearing a small smile and there’s a gleam in his eyes she’s seen way too often to believe he’s actually buying the line she’s selling. “That’s a…really good point. Do you want to test that theory out?”

“No!”

She says it much too quickly to be convincing, and his eyebrows shoot up at her tone.

“I mean, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she finishes, calmer this time.

“Oh.” The smile morphs into the tiniest of smirks, and he leans in until their lips are maybe an inch apart, eyes locked on hers. “You scared?” he teases, voice lowering.

She draws a sharp, shaky breath, pulse stuttering as she flashes back to that long-ago night at the bar and tries to force herself to focus on something other than him. Because it’s happening again. He’s sneaking into her heart like he did before. Making her feel things, showing her that all she’s really been doing this whole time is pretending embers have become ashes, and why? Because she doesn’t want to believe it’s possible for a fire to ignite. The prospect of burning ( _again!_ ) terrifies her; it’s easier if she doesn’t love him this time.

Smarter.

Better.

Because as long as she doesn’t love him, she can never truly lose him. And if she can’t lose him, she can’t be hurt. Not anymore, and not in the ways she most fears.

“Yeah,” she whispers. Another gush of tears streams down her cheeks, but she still can’t make herself look away. “I’m scared.”

“Cool,” he says huskily. “Me, too.”

He leans in toward her slowly. Tentatively. Exactly the way he did once upon a whole other life ago in the infirmary—the first time she almost lost him—when she was trying to wrap her head around the concept of not seeing him ever again and he was giving her the chance to stop him, or maybe to run.

And oh, how she wants to run this time.

There’s a split second where she’s so terrified of everything he represents, everything he means to her, that she almost does. But the instant his lips meet hers, all that changes. For a few breathless seconds there’s nothing except the two of them, and when he pulls away she stares at him for a moment, heart pounding like it’s going to burst out of her chest. Memories—buried but not forgotten—flood her mind, and without actually deciding to do it, she suddenly drops the bottle and lunges forward, flinging herself full-tilt at him.

The unexpectedness of the movement knocks him backward and sends them both crashing to the ground, but she barely registers the impact because she’s too busy grabbing onto his shoulders and losing herself in a kiss so long and deep that it’s almost painful. Torrid heat flares in her chest as strong arms lock around her waist, and when he pulls her down from where she’s kneeling astride him, she’s immediately unable to focus on anything beyond the sensations running riot through her body. Her breath escapes between kisses in ragged, staccato bursts, and it’s impossible to hold back a whimper when one of his hands slides up to tangle in her hair. Relaxing into him is reflex; so is the gasp that tears loose from her when the arm at her back slips lower and he transfers his mouth to a spot just beyond the edge of her jaw. For a minute, or maybe it’s an hour—she’s lost all sense of time and can no longer tell—she’s conscious only of how she feels. Of how his lips awaken a raw, desperate desire she’s all but forgotten about every time they collide with hers or blaze burning trails down her throat, how her heartbeat accelerates in conjunction with his increasingly erratic breaths, how the focus-extinguishing sensations caused by her roaming fingertips and the palms he’s now got anchored against the backs of her legs are like a drop in the desert, a two-second arctic breeze over a hot, becalmed sea: wonderful and welcome, but just. Not. Enough.

He’s close; she wants him closer. His hands are in her hair, on her waist, gliding over her legs; she wants them everywhere, all at once, right this instant. The more he kisses her, the more she wants him to, and her movements intensify in speed and ferocity until it seems entirely possible that he might break beneath her. But he doesn’t—not even a little. He matches her stride for stride, just as he’s always done, and the way he knows exactly how and when and where to touch her is for sure going to be her undoing.

Not that she cares.

Right now, the important thing is that he’s here with her. That he’s real, and tangible, and so very much not a dream and not the stranger she thought him that she can hardly breathe. Night after night she’s longed for this, for _him_ , and if he doesn’t stop running his lips over her neck and start helping her get this stupid suit off of him—

_Wait._

The sharp sound of cloth ripping beneath overeager hands slaps her suddenly to her senses—in the blink of an eye she realizes where she is, what she’s doing, what she’s _about_ to do, and rolls off and away from him with a horrified gasp.

“Oh, my God,” she murmurs, covering her face as her head falls back against the cool surface of the floor. Even the hasty glance she had is enough to reveal that her carelessness has left an indelible mark on the room—little pieces of broken concrete skitter beneath her, a set of large, spiderweb-like cracks branch out from the spot where they landed when she leapt at him, and there’s dust floating all around (though whether it’s from the rubble they’ve crushed or the mat that’s gotten destroyed at some unknown point, she doesn’t know). All in all, the sparring session did less damage. “I don’t believe this.”

“What?”

Mon-El sounds almost groggy and she twists around, peeking through her fingers as he pushes himself up onto an elbow. His face is flushed and shiny in a way even thirty minutes of combat couldn’t make it, his expression borders on dazed as he peers down at her, but he’s already got a reassuring hand on her arm and Rao save her, if she doesn’t get control of herself soon, the suit that he’s only half-wearing now thanks to her frantically clumsy efforts to remove it, is going to be in shreds. Actual _shreds._  

“What is it?” he repeats, his thumb rubbing light circles into her shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I mean—yes. Oh, I don’t know. This was…” Shoving a mass of hair out of her eyes, Kara gulps shakily. “Look, I-I’m gonna have to go.”

Mon-El stares at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why?”

Because she’s a moth buzzing around a flame she should know better than to approach? A wimp when it comes to matters of the heart? A complete and utter _fool_?

Who even knows? Certainly not she.

“I just have to,” she mumbles, climbing unsteadily to her feet. “Look, this was...this was my fault. I didn’t mean—I’m so sorry.”

Then, before he has the chance to speak, to say anything that might further weaken her resolve, she runs out. Blood racing, heart stinging, his every touch still lingering on her skin.

Oh Rao, what has she done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title inspired by Matt Nathanson's "Come On Get Higher," a song I love (despite that really awkward moment back in 2007 when my dad and I accidentally discovered that we both loved it and came to a mutual agreement to never discuss that fact, ever) and that's reminded me of Kara and Mon-El for a while now.  
> *Okay. I know it's been a while since my last update and that I keep saying I'm going to check comments, but this time, I mean it. I don't have to work tomorrow, so if I'm up until 8am reading and answering comments after tonight's Supergirl ends, I'll do it. This is getting ridiculous, and I miss hearing what everyone's thinking about this season! (I'm loving it, honestly. "Wake Up" was easily my favorite episode this season, despite the sadness, and I'm still not over Kara playing Britney in 3x03 and Gwen in 3x06.)  
> *I struggled with this chapter and the next chapter for a really long time because I couldn't come up with a way to include Mon-El's POV in this one (things got way too long), or the one I originally planned to have follow it. In addition, Barry and Iris feature semi-heavily in the original next-chapter, and while I personally love them, I know some Karamel fans don't and I didn't want to spring Westallen on anyone without warning; this fandom has enough trouble with deliberately mis-tagged fics...nobody needs more of that. So, long story short, I decided to put Mon-El's POV into a separate chapter and just expand this thing to 8 chapters. Not sure if that's good, not sure if that's bad, but it is what it is.  
> ***Big Note: this fic will probably gloss heavily over Reign (right now I have a sentence in a later chapter mentioning that they fought her) because when I wrote 90% of it, it was late summer, and I honestly didn't think she was going to show up as soon as she apparently is in the show. My theories have evolved severely at this point, but if I change them now, I'll lose a lot of what I've got written, so I'm trying to not go there.  
> ***Thank you guys for reading/commenting! Hope you're all doing amazing (AKA, either savoring the angst of Mon-El's return and the mystery surrounding it like I am, or at least coping with the emotional trauma of it all), and that you're having a wonderful December thus far! <3 <3 <3


	5. In The Middle Of The Night, In My Dreams (11 More Hours)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mon-El reflects on the incident in the training room and realizes that a future with Kara is going to be complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: messy chapter ahead! Proceed at your own risk, and please excuse the probable typos.

_I’m gonna have to go._

_I didn’t mean—I’m so sorry._

For what seems like the millionth time, Mon-El gives the pillow a dangerously rough whack with his fist and rolls over onto his other side. It’s been hours now since that very interesting and very confusing encounter with Kara in the old training room, but even though he’s now had (some) time and (some) distance to reflect on it, anything remotely resembling clarity remains elusive.

Annoyingly so.

Groaning, he shuts his eyes tight. He’s given it his very best shot, but every time he tries to take a calm, objective look at the incident and what led up to it, a series of highly-disruptive images flood his mind, and it’s more than a little difficult to concentrate on anything besides that. Like…one minute they were sparring, the next he was calling attention to her near-constant dodging of subjects she didn’t want to talk about, then suddenly they were kissing. After that, it was a kind of a blur—a warm, pleasant blur to be sure, but a blur nonetheless—and it was like he came to lying on the floor with Kara on top of him, offering no resistance whatsoever when she started trying to tear his clothes off. 

Now that he thinks about it, it _should_ have been shocking. He _should_ have tried to stop, or at least slow it all down. (He didn’t, of course; if anything, he offered encouragement, and no, he isn’t sorry and would do it again in a heartbeat, but the point is he _should_ have.) Anyone could have entered at any moment, and…

_Grife._

He sits bolt upright as a horrifying thought he should have had ages ago strikes him. The cameras. That room looked old and abandoned, but Mon-El is certain J’onn is too thorough to leave the place completely un-monitored. If footage of what went down earlier exists, he needs to get to it before someone else does—he knows for a fact that Kara won’t want news of this spreading, and since her embarrassment will undoubtedly make things weirder between them, he’s not too keen on it himself either.

Quickly, he throws back the flimsy little blanket and rolls out of bed, slipping silently into the darkened hallway. There aren’t many agents milling about now since it’s so late, but he tiptoes anyway, ears straining for the sound of nearby footsteps. He had to enlist Winn’s aid in suit reparation earlier, and doesn’t care to repeat that experience any time soon. Because even though the smaller man didn’t ask any questions beyond the initial _You TORE it? What the hell did you do?_ (to which Mon-El replied with the weak but technical truth, _I don’t know. It sort of got torn on something when I wasn’t looking_ ) there was enough sympathy and embarrassed understanding in his expression to make the whole thing supremely awkward.

Even now, sneaking through the shadowy corridors of the DEO all alone, Mon-El can’t help squirming a little at how unsurprised Winn seemed. Did everyone expect something like this to happen? Is he the only one deeply confused by the way he responds to Kara? Because as much as he’s thought about it—as much as he’s remembered—he doesn’t really understand _why_ she affects him so intensely _._ Whatever he felt for her once upon a time should have faded along with those memories, right? By all accounts, she should be like a stranger to him. An un-crackable code.

(The operative word being _should,_ of course.)

In spite of himself, he almost laughs. Honestly, who is he kidding? He’s not big on hypothetical, wishful-thinking scenarios. What help is it to go over all the ways this doesn’t make sense now that he’s already crossed the line? The important thing is that he’s nicely mired in a weird situation that has to be sorted out—and soon—if he expects to ever work with Kara again. The next-most important thing is that he needs to figure out what he’s going to say, because he strongly suspects that if he’s not the one to bring up what happened, it’ll never get addressed. Ever. She’s clearly willing to go to great lengths to act like the messiness that apparently exists between them is resolved, and considering some of the details he’s recalled in vivid color, he can’t say he blames her. But whenever he contemplates just going with it and behaving as though nothing untoward happened, he gets a sick, don’t-do-it feeling in his stomach that won’t let him entertain the notion for long.

Ducking into a different hall for a moment to avoid two agents in mid-conversation, Mon-El kills a few minutes biting his nails and trying again to figure out how he’s ended up here. Like—the more he thinks it over, the less sure he is of how it spiraled so far out of control. When he went looking for his incredibly kind, incredibly gorgeous superhero partner earlier, he only wanted to ask her some questions. The memories have been clearer but more confusing lately, and he’s noticed how uncomfortable she seems every time he starts to voice his puzzlement—how Winn, Alex, and J’onn exchange the kind of looks that say they know something when they think he can’t see them, and then hush up when Kara sends them a kind of death-glare when _she_ thinks he can’t see her. Plus the way he’s caught himself acting around her—smiling when she turns up, laughing when she laughs, getting just a little too lost in her eyes? That alone screamed _MORE TO THE STORY_ , so he kept on alert.

But, he thinks, slipping back out into the hall now that the voices have faded into the distance, it wasn’t until the fight the other week when that guy mentioned _Romeo_ and something about the word set off a string of perplexing recollections that a hazy theory began forming.

_Romeo._

_Juliet._

_Star-crossed lovers from Fair Verona._

_The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars._

_Just like Romeo and Juliet._

_You really need to finish it. Can you finish reading that, please?_

None of it made sense—not the cumbersome sentences floating around his brain, not the mental picture of Kara sitting across from him on a couch and smiling at him, _nothing—_ but he knew it was all connected anyway. He refrained from asking questions at the time since Kara paled as though she were seeing a ghost and kept chattering nervously about nothing all the way back to the DEO, but the whole thing nagged at him in a way that wouldn’t let him rest. So the instant they got back and Kara disappeared, he went straight to a computer where the terms _Romeo and Juliet_ led him to an eerily familiar story about two humans from warring families who fell in love and then died a tragic death.

It sparked a lot of vague suspicions in him, sure, but he fully intended to keep quiet about it his research—until that night, when his head hit the pillow and a bunch of new and unmistakably intimate images popped into his mind. At that point, he realized that ignoring this particular development was never going to work. The instinctive trust he felt for Kara could easily be explained by the friendship story they told him. These new memories…couldn’t.

_Not unless the definition of ‘friendship’ on Earth differs vastly from the definition on other planets_ he thinks, shaking his head as he pauses outside the door to the room that houses about half the DEO's security footage. He’s no expert on Earthen behavior—at least, he thinks he isn’t—but he felt instantly sure that a mere _friend_ of Kara’s wouldn’t be allowed the kind of privileges those memories suggested that he once enjoyed (the word _enjoyed_ being one of the greatest understatements of all time).

“Mon-El?” a crisp voice calls, seemingly from nowhere. “Is that you?”

He freezes, hand suspended above the keypad. Just his luck; someone _is_ dedicated enough to their job to still be lurking near this area! Oh joy. Maybe he shouldn’t be that surprised, but was it really so crazy for him to assume that even Alex would be long gone by now? After all, who besides J’onn J’onzz hung around the DEO at two o’clock in the morning when their shift supposedly ended at midnight? And why in Rao’s name would they choose to linger in _this_ locale?

Without a very good reason, of course. Which he definitely has.

“Alex, hi,” he says, turning to see the petite-yet-fearsome agent walking toward him, her thin brows squiggled into polite question marks. “Uh…you’re here kind of late, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” she answers. Her brisk gait doesn’t slow until she halts a few feet away, and he gets the distinct impression from the way she tilts her head when she crosses her arms that she’s already forming suspicions. “I stay late every now and then to catch up on paperwork. And I like to double-check my areas before I leave. Make sure everything’s shipshape and ready to start the next day.”

“Ah.” He nods like he gets it, mind spinning as he tries to invent a good (or at least plausible) reason for his own presence outside the locked security monitoring room. “Good for you. That’s…a great habit to get into.”

“Yes, it is. And speaking of good habits which reminds me of _bad_ habits,” she says before he can come up with anything halfway decent, “whatcha doing?”

“I’m…” he begins, scrambling for something that’s not along the lines of _sleepwalking._ But then he gets a better look at her and realizes the pointlessness. “Never mind,” he says resignedly. “I’m going to take a _wild_ leap here and guess that you already know the answer to that question?”

“Sorry.” She gives him a smile that’s part sadness, part sympathy, and part something that looks a hell of lot like amusement. “Kara’s been cruising the skies for no apparent reason since late this afternoon, and I heard from Winn that he mended some rips in your suit.”

“And so you automatically thought…” he prompts, deciding to not commit himself to any course of action until he’s absolutely sure she’s onto him.

Alex shrugs. “At first? Nothing. I didn’t connect either of those two things until eight-thirteen this evening, when I needed extra mats for a training session with some of the new recruits.”

“Ah,” Mon-El says. _There goes that hope_. “I take it this giant-ass building only has one other place they keep mats?”

She points at him, clicking her tongue. “Bingo. I went down to the old training room, saw the mess, and…” Emitting a low whistle, she grimaces. “I’m not big on jumping to conclusions, especially when it comes to scenarios involving my baby sister and sex in the workplace, but hey. I can do the math.”

“Yes, well.” He folds his arms too, wondering why he even bothered with stealth. Of course Alex has already seen everything and drawn her own (mostly correct) conclusions. Were he smarter, he would have just gone straight to her and begged for help instead of wasting all this time and effort tiptoeing around. “Some of that damage was the result of actual _sparring_ , Agent Danvers.”

She chuckles, leaning against the wall. “That’s a relief, seeing as how a lot of things appeared to be heatvision-scarred. I mean, I know everyone’s got their own way of doing things, but _yikes_. Not sure they make protection for that.”

“Right.” He cocks an eyebrow, wondering vaguely why he’s not more embarrassed. “Question: is there some exciting purpose to this little chat that’s yet to be revealed, or do you just…want to make fun?”

“Well,” she says, inclining her head toward the door, “originally, my plan was to come up and do some damage control before I went to see if Kara’s ready to have the story wrung out of her, but since you’re here…I’d consider it a personal favor if you were the one to go in and get rid of the evidence.”

“Me?” He tries to keep the surprise from his voice, but it shows up anyway.

“Yes, you.” She shudders, the gesture only half-mocking. “I’ve seen some grisly sights in my time, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to witness this one.”

Mon-El has to snort at that. “Uh-huh. Well, not that it’s any of your business, but we didn’t get far enough to scald your eyes. There was some incidental groping maybe, but—”

“Oh, God. Stop it, stop it right there!” Her entire face screws itself into one big pucker and she waves a frantic hand. “Look, Mon-El. Let me make something abundantly clear here: I love my sister. I will do anything in my power to help my sister, but I’d really, _really_ rather not chance burning something like this onto my brain if I don’t absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt have to, all right? Just scrub the footage clean so I don’t have to be subjected to any visual details. And don’t tell me what did or didn’t happen!” she commands. “I don’t. Want. To know.”

“All right,” he says, a half-laugh escaping as he gestures toward the door. “I’ll take care of it, but I don’t have the code, so would you mind? A break-in’s something _I’d_ rather not do if I don’t have to. Especially since I don’t think J’onn would appreciate it.”

“Sure.” She steps over and punches in a rapid series of numbers. “It’s an auto-lock. Just make sure the door’s fully shut when you leave and you’re home free. The computers use the normal log-ins we showed you last week, so you should be fine there, too.”

“Got it,” he responds. “And thank you.”

 “You’re welcome. Oh, and Mon-El?” she adds, catching him by the arm just before he moves inside.

He frowns. “Yeah?”

“About Kara,” she says, face and voice softening. “This whole thing…it’s been pretty rough on her.”

For some reason, the words land like a heavy, ominous weight in his chest. Swallowing hard, he nods. “Yeah, I…got that impression from her.”

“Confronting emotions?” Alex continues, her expression gentling even further. “It’s not her strongest suit to begin with. When you see her again, she may lash out. Or she may not want to talk at all. Just…go slow and listen to what she’s _not_ saying as much as what she is saying, okay?”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he answers, forcing a quick smile. Rao, he hopes it’s the first option, rather than the second. There’s no way he’ll be able to pretend this never happened; he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Kara has other ideas, but it probably won’t be pretty. “Thanks again, Alex.”

“Anytime.” She gives his arm a little squeeze before waving goodbye. “See you tomorrow, and good luck, huh?”

“Yep,” he mumbles, stepping inside and pulling the door closed behind him. “Good luck.”

It occurs to him as he scouts around for a spot that won’t put him in the direct line of sight of anyone entering that he needs it. (Good luck, not necessarily the spot, although when he plops down in a desk chair off to the side that affords a good view of the door while remaining relatively hidden and discovers that the seat appears to be made for the shortest and lightest of humans, he’s ready to rethink that.) He’s made a lot of blunders since he arrived, and he’s anxious to end that streak as soon as possible. Luck’s been a bit of stranger lately, and he’s not thrilled with that.

Sighing, the noise loud in the quiet room, he starts the computer and logs on quickly. The light from the screen as it wakes up blasts into his face and spurs him forward; the last thing he needs right now is someone walking in and noticing the ultra-bright glow off in the corner, so he’s relieved when he locates the old training room footage in about a minute and a half. A hasty check for other cameras reveals that there’s only one to worry about—the other two picked up snippets of Kara’s equipment-frying and the majority of the spar-fest, which will only help explain the damage if anyone questions it—so he sets to work erasing everything from a few hours before to make it look as though the camera died. He might have to sneak down and dismantle the little machine when he’s done here, but it seems like the simplest concealer available, so why not?

Restlessly, he drums his fingers on the table, keeping an ear out for any sound of approaching footsteps while he waits for the recorded footage to finish deleting. A part of him is oddly fascinated by the whole proceeding—this time, he thinks, watching the grainy images disappear with what seems like sluggish speed, this time _he’s_ the one wiping away information…the one deliberately keeping someone else from knowledge they’ll never know they’re missing.

And in a bitter sort of way, it’s very satisfying.

Ever since he woke up in a strange hospital bed surrounded by a group of strangers who seemed to know way too much about him, he’s struggled with memories that insist on bleeding together. He wasn’t lying when he told everyone that he had trouble remembering his life before, but he hasn’t told the unrestricted truth, either. He can’t figure out where the memories come from or why some linger and others don’t; that much is true. But he’s got a strong sense of what Winn calls déjà vu that just won’t leave him alone, and a huge part of that is attached to Kara. That midair crash with her in the DEO control room unsettled him mightily from the start. He didn’t know her (or at any rate, that’s what his head said). But the way she kept looking at him, the way she touched his face almost as though she were afraid of hurting him—it was unnerving. Before he knew it, he was staring at her with a strange, disconcerting feeling in the pit of his stomach that spread out to the tips of his toes until he was somehow more brain-addled than he’d been when he first awoke, and the worst of it was that he didn’t actually hate the sensation. If anything, it felt…natural. Like he’d done it so many times previously that his brain treated it as nothing more than an automatic response. A reflex, even. But how could that be if he and Kara were, as she and everyone else said, friends?

From there on out, he took extra precautions to ensure that his doubts didn’t cause him to do anything rash, but the feeling persisted just the same. And the more he interacted with Kara, the stronger that feeling got. Over and over, he told himself that he was imagining things. That the way he’d look up and catch her watching him, a strange, faraway, almost sad expression on her face, meant nothing. That the way he’d find himself going above and beyond to drag a smile from her when it shouldn’t matter one whit what kind of mood she was in also meant nothing. That the way his heart thumped just a little bit faster when the sound of her voice reached his ears or he heard her soft footfalls heading his direction meant nothing, nothing, _nothing,_ and he was just being foolish.

_And speaking of footfalls…_

Mon-El tenses as he picks up the distinct sound of the lady in question’s boots stealing along the corridor toward his current location.

“Lovely,” he mutters, hastily shutting down the computer.

What is it with the Danvers sisters upending his expectations tonight? He would’ve bet big money on Kara not showing her face around this place for another two days at least—not without a serious emergency, anyway—but from the looks of things, it seems he’s not the only one who’s just remembered that there exists a definite need to take a broom to their tracks. For a split second, he entertains the idea of making a run for it. But really, what will that accomplish? A high-speed chase through the DEO that’ll only result in him explaining himself to Kara in front of a crowd of curious agents? No, he decides grimly, it’s best to just stand his ground and deal with it.

Pushing his chair back before he hast time to question the decision—the idea of hiding is still too attractive to warrant thinking about—he hops up on the desk and takes a seat facing the entrance.

_This isn’t weird,_ he assures himself firmly, annoyed at the sweat droplets he can feel beading up on his forehead as the door creaks slowly open. _You’re an adult. She’s an adult. You’re capable of handling this in a relatively-adult manner. All you have to do is stay calm._

Not that that last instruction is the easiest thing to do. The instant a head cautiously pokes itself into the room, he’s in trouble. Light from the multitude of control panels near the door gleams off a cloud of blonde hair and he’s forced to catch his breath as his mind immediately darts back to earlier, to Kara draped over him—face flushed, hair tousled, eyes wildly blue, long legs gripping his sides with the heat of molten lava and the strength of nth metal. Just like in his memories, she’s beautiful, and powerful, and so completely overwhelming that if he thinks about it now he’ll never be able to focus on anything else ever, so he takes a deep breath as the shadowy silhouette moves toward the computers across from where he sits.

“If you’re here to delete it, there’s no need.”

He speaks quietly so as not to startle her, but she jumps and falls back against the desk anyway. The high-pitched complaint of metal crumpling makes him wince, and she yanks her hand away from the edge of the desk looking embarrassed.

“Oh,” she says, eyes darting between him and the closed door like she’s already planning her escape. “Mon-El! Hi! I…didn’t realize anyone was still—I mean, I didn’t know you were—that is, it’s late and I didn’t expect to…”

He smiles, her nervous stammering taking the edge off his own apprehension. “You didn’t expect to run into me or you wouldn’t have come down here in a couple trillion years?”

She looks trapped. But instead of protesting the accusation like he fully expects her to, she sighs and sort of slumps down against the table on her side of the room.

“Yeah,” she says, shoving some long strands of hair behind her ear. “That’s about the size of it.”

Mon-El nods thoughtfully, feet swinging as he leans back on his wrists. The instant she vanished out the training room door and left him lying there staring up at the ceiling trying to figure out what the hell just happened, he knew this encounter would have to come sooner or later. In theory that was all well and good, and not two minutes ago he felt prepared to tackle the challenge. Now that the moment’s here though, it feels weird, he doesn’t like it, and he straightaway resolves to take all cues from the ill-at-ease Kryptonian before him.

Except…now that he thinks of it, the last time he went with the play-along, Let-Kara-Call-The-Conversation-Shots method, the only thing that saved them from making everything a hundred times more complicated with a sweaty, dusty, rubble-strewn session of floor sex was the durability of his suit. Which he is not currently wearing, since Winn took it home to finish up some stitching. So maybe that’s not the best plan in the universe?

“Okay, are you going to say something, or should I?” he says finally when the silence reaches a peak of horrible oppressiveness.

Kara fidgets. “Right, uh…can we start with the footage?” she asks, fingers tugging at the pointed little hems of her suit’s sleeves. “You said there’s no need?”

“I did,” he confirms, inwardly blessing the introduction of a less-charged subject. “And there isn’t.”

“Did the cameras not…?” The motion she uses to illustrate her question is spasmodic, but he understands anyway. “You know.”

“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “They were all working. The good news is that two of them just recorded the sparring. The less-good news is that the other one…”

“Picked up quite a show,” she finishes, voice monotone. “Awesome.”

“Yeah.” Mon-El rubs his chin, debating the truth of that statement. “Or it picked up the beginnings of one, at any rate.”

“Oh, Rao.” She buries her face in her hands. “How bad was it?”

_Bad?_ He frowns. “Well, I didn’t exactly watch the whole thing from start to finish, but I’m sure worse films have been made.”

“ _No._ Ugh. Not that.” Kara pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly. “I mean how much humiliation could it bring on us if anyone we know happens across it?”

Oh. _That_.

“Loads,” he informs her without hesitation. “It was an eventful six minutes and thirty-two seconds. Very full of blackmail potential. I suggest never letting any of your nemeses get ahold of it if you don’t want to cough up your life’s savings.”

“Great,” she moans. “Of course it—wait, what? Did you just say six minutes and thirty-two seconds?”

“Yep.” Thirty-two-point-seven-one seconds to be precise, but he keeps that bit of info to himself since he doesn’t foresee any tangible benefit from volunteering it.

“Are you _kidding_ me? That was six _minutes_? There is no way we were—not for that long!”

She stares at him, mouth agape, and all at once he can’t help it. A smirk escapes.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” he says lightly, tilting his head. “I’d have sworn it was no more than a minute at most.”

“No, no. That’s not what I…” She trails off, the unconvincing lie hanging half-finished in the air. “Oh, never mind. Okay, um, did you…delete _all_ traces of it?”

“No,” he deadpans. “I saved multiple copies of it so I can watch it whenever I feel lonely.”

She sighs loudly, sitting down on the desk across from him. “So that would be a _yes,_ then?”

“That’s a _yes,_ ” he chuckles. “I do still need to accidentally destroy a camera, though.”

“There’s no need,” Kara parrots matter-of-factly. “I heatvisioned them all a little while ago.”

“What?” He stares at her, astonished. (And maybe a little impressed, because that’s just not the kind of approach he expects from her.) “You _did_?”

“Yeah, I figured I could say I got irritated and used them for target practice.” She shrugs almost sheepishly. “I was going to just erase everything from the time I went down there.”

“Mmm.” He nods, thinking it over. “Good plan. I like it.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Except…ooh.” He sits up straight, pointing at her as a thought hits him. “This means I need to make a couple more hours of footage disappear.”

Scrunching his knees up under his chin, he spins around on the desk. Carefully, he squeezes between two monitors and drops back down on the other side, lowering himself onto the squatty little chair again as Kara lands beside him, having skipped actual walking in favor of a quick hover-n-drop.

“Wow,” she remarks, looking over his shoulder as he hurriedly logs back on. “You’re a lot better at this than I remember.”

“Really?” He pauses to glance at her and regrets it immediately. Her skin seems paler in the bright blue light from the screen, the fluorescent glow highlighting the long curves of her neck in a way that makes his mouth go dry since it calls to mind certain mental images that he probably shouldn’t be thinking about while he’s trying to enter a password. _Focus, you idiot._ “Was I uh, bad with computers before?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a smile cross her face.

“Well,” she says, “not exactly. You were all gung-ho on using superspeed to type, but you only typed with two fingers and mostly got the volume and on-off buttons confused, so…”

“So, bad,” he fills in conversationally, pulling up the remaining footage from cameras 327, 328, and 329. “Abysmally.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Yeah, well.” He makes a clicking sound with his teeth against his tongue as he selects the three sections of footage to delete them. “Politeness is overrated sometimes.”

“Maybe.” She bends down to get a better look at the screen, hair spilling over her shoulder. “Wait, did you get everything all the way back to the fifteen-twelve mark? I think that’s right after I got down there.”

“Yep. Got it,” he answers, trying to ignore the swathe of fragrant, shimmery locks dangling inches away from his face.  But then she reaches up absently to push some strands behind her ear and her elbow grazes him on the way back down, making him tenser than ever. She’s obviously not doing it on purpose—her quick intake of breath and hastily muttered apology is signal enough of that for anyone—but it messes with his head just the same, and he’s aghast at how much effort it takes to keep from leaning into her.

Frustrated with himself, he balls one hand into a fist. The stillness of the room weighs heavy once again, and though Kara doesn’t exactly shy away, he can see her looking everywhere but in his direction. She so obviously wants to be anywhere but here that it’s almost laughable, and he’s sorely tempted to make some lame excuse and bolt out of this place to ease the tension. But instinct tells him that’s about the stupidest move he could make just now, so he stifles a sigh and clears his throat.

“Before you say anything,” she says quickly in a strained, quiet voice, “can you just…not?”

_Wow,_ that’s a tempting offer he wishes he were fool enough to accept. But however attractive it seems, especially right here, right now with them both trying way too hard to act like they’re not ultra-aware of each other’s nearness, avoidance isn’t the answer. Not when they have to go on seeing each other day after day, and certainly not now that he’s got a fuller picture of what their previous “friendship” entailed.

Steeling his resolve, he swivels around in his chair to face her.

“Kara, it’s going to be more awkward if we don’t talk about it,” he says bluntly, tapping a toe against the floor to get rid of some of his nervous energy.

She cringes, her discomfort palpable. “I don’t know about that.”

“Yes, well…” He chuckles dryly. “I’ve got a few memories that beg to differ. There’s one where we literally pretend we never kissed, and near as I can tell, that charade blew up in our faces pretty quick.”

A small but deep groove appears in her forehead and she shifts uneasily from foot to foot. “You…remember all that stuff now?” she asks tentatively.

Mon-El exhales loudly. “Yes. That’s the good news, that I’ve been regaining a lot of memories. The bad news is…” He holds a hand out toward her. “I think you’re the one that triggered them because they all include you.”

“Oh.” Her face wrinkles immediately and her fingertips travel up to massage anxious little circles into her temples. “I don’t suppose these newfound memories that include me are the ones of us trying out a bunch of fun and different things, are they?”

One of the more blush-worthy recollections crosses his mind and he barely manages to hold back a guffaw. “Technically speaking…yes. They are.”

She looks relieved. “Well, that’s not too—”

“But not in the way I think you mean,” he clarifies, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck while he tries to brainstorm a more tactful explanation. “If that’s not explanatory enough, let’s just say that unless you count the odd undergarment, there isn’t a lot of clothing involved in these fun activities. Hence why I turned up yesterday with questions.”

“Oh, _wonderful_.” Groaning, Kara plops into a chair and slumps forward, resting her head on the desk and covering it with her arms like she’s trying to block out a loud noise. “Mon-El, there are so many other things we did when we were together,” she says after a minute or so, her voice muffled. “Why is _THAT_ what you remember most clearly?”

“Well.” He lifts a brow. “Based off what I remember and the refresher course I had in that subject several hours ago, I’d have to say…because it was just that good?”

“It was,” she says glumly, then gasps. “No, wait! I didn’t say that. Forget I said that.”

“Sorry,” he answers, not even bothering to scold himself for the little thrill of warmth that zips through him at her unguarded reply. He has no idea where this conversation’s leading, so he’s determined to make the most of it and enjoy what he can. (Which at the moment includes Kara’s discernible embarrassment, since it tells him she meant exactly what she said.) “There’s nothing wrong with my current memory. Or my ears, so…”

She sighs. “Well, I guess I should be flattered.”

“Yeah,” he responds, both eyebrows rising this time as a few more images dance unbidden through his mind’s eye. “I’m pretty sure flight, super strength, x-ray and heat vision aren’t your only superpowers.”

“Mon-El…”

She’s turning redder than Mars now, but there’s a tiny little smile playing about her lips that undermines her mild protest and makes him grin at the ground for a second or two. This is one of those things about Kara that he’s only just realized—or is it remembered?—fascinates him. She’s always so careful…so anxious to preserve propriety, so concerned with manners and etiquette, plans and safety, but she’s also got a mischievous streak that surfaces every now and then, and he’d be lying if he said it’s not wildly attractive.

“What?” he says, shrugging. “It’s true. And it’s a compliment, so no need to be embarrassed.”

“Too late. I am.” Slouching back in her chair, she scrapes some of the shimmery waves framing her face over her shoulder and huffs out a motorboat-ish sigh.  “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised though, huh?”

He frowns, her half-weary, half-sarcastic inflection throwing him for a bit of a loop. “About?”

“You know.” She gestures back and forth between them, attention fixed on a fingernail as if her life depends on it. “This. You.”

“Me?” he queries, a laugh bursting out as he tries to make sense of her renewed caginess. “Aside from this afternoon and the footage deleting, what’d I do?”

Now she looks at him all right, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” she says irritably.

He pretends to consider the question, enjoying her discomfiture more than he probably should. “That might be helpful,” he answers seriously at length.

“Oh, good grief.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares up at the ceiling. “You’re still all whoop-de-do about certain topics, okay? They don’t…fluster you. At all.”

“Certain topics?” he inquires, biting back a grin. “You mean… _S-E-X_?”

“You know very well what I mean,” she snaps, cheeks reddening. “You’ve forgotten tons of stuff, you’re kind of secretive now—like, I know you think you’re being subtle, but I can _tell_ when something’s bothering you and you’re trying to keep it to yourself...” She waves an arm vaguely before letting it drop back down. “You’re so different in all these weird ways, but oh, wait—one thing’s the same: you still have no problem bringing up and talking about…about…” She half-stumbles over the words, her already deep blush darkening when he lifts an eyebrow. “Well, stuff like what happened earlier,” she finishes. “Which was _not_ sex. It was…”

He tries hard not to smirk. “Floorplay?”

“Mon- _El._ ” Her glare is instantaneous and followed closely by an eye-roll that tickles his sense of humor almost unbearably. “I’m serious.”

“Sorry.” He holds up his hands, chuckles overflowing despite his best intentions to keep sober. “Only trying to lighten the mood.”

“Yeah, I get that,” she says.

Her voice is sharp, sarcastic—grating even, but there’s something else there, too. A mysterious something buried beneath all her tone’s acerbity that reminds him of the training room and puts him on instant alert. Kara’s not what anyone on any planet in any galaxy would call a harsh personality. The idea’s laughable. Even when she’s in Supergirl mode and conversing with criminals in the very act of evildoing, her tone never quite loses its inherent note of kindness. If she’s managed to banish it now like she did hours ago, it means she’s making a conscious effort to go on the offensive.

Which, unless he’s greatly mistaken, also means she’s trying to hide something.

“Okay,” he says after a second or two, sifting through her last couple remarks for clues. “Speaking seriously for a moment, if you really want to know what I’m thinking when I’m thinking it, I can tell you. Just…” He gives his head a small shake, well-aware of how risky a promise like this is. “Bear in mind that there is a difference between being truthful and being open. You might not like what you hear because you might hear more than you want to.”

She nods thoughtfully, poking herself in the chin with the ends of a handful of hair. “Thank you. I guess that is a good point.”

“No, that’s an _excellent_ point,” he puts in, affecting an easy confidence he doesn’t feel by lounging back in his chair. “For instance, if I were being completely honest right now, I’d tell you that all this chitchatting we’re doing to avoid discussing the thing we’re both thinking about is making me slowly lose my mind.”

Kara sighs. “And if I were being completely honest right now, I’d tell you that I never meant for anything like that to happen. That I was feeling kind of down, I slipped up, and that there aren’t enough languages in the galaxy to express how sorry I am.”

He nods back, watching her closely. She means it—he’s certain of that, at least. But why is she having trouble making eye contact again? And why does her regret over the whole thing have to disappoint him so damn much? “Anything else?” he inquires.

“Yeah.” She huffs out a flat sort of laugh. “I’d love it if we could agree to just put this behind us—go on like it never happened.”

“We could try,” he agrees, mentally kicking himself the instant the words leave his mouth. Rao, what is he doing? He hates this idea. Loathes it. _Despises_ it, and probably because he knows it’ll be impossible for him. “Just for the sake of argument though…why would we want to do that?”

She’s studying the edge of her cape now, pretty much exuding nervousness. “Because we’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future,” she answers at last, voice low. “I overheard J’onn talking to Alex on my way down here. He’s…apparently been hearing rumors—whispers, I guess I should say, of some kind of big threat that’s making its way toward the city, and he’s worried. He thinks it’s here already. That we just haven’t found it yet and that it’s going to take everything we’ve got to defeat it. I don’t have any kind of psychic abilities, but…I’ve just got this hunch that he’s right.”

Mon-El frowns. “So you’ve got that nasty feeling in your stomach too?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze lifts to his, something frighteningly akin to dread in her eyes. “And I don’t like it. It…well, it doesn’t exactly _scare_ me, but it does put me on my guard, and I just think that what I need now is to be focused. At the top of my game, not…”

“Not freaking out over past loves?” he supplies.

She looks miserable. “I really am sorry, Mon-El. I should never have let this happen.”

“Hey.” He smiles cheerily, painfully aware that the action’s a direct response to the way she’s drooping. When he told her in the training room that he couldn’t stand seeing her upset, he wasn’t kidding. Whatever he thinks of this pretend-it-never-happened plan, he won’t mention it to her. Not if doing so might distress her further. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Hah,” she says gloomily. “That’s a lie.”

“No, actually, it’s the last of my complete honesty,” he corrects, shutting down the computer with an elaborate flourish. “The unvarnished truth, if you will.”

It’s halfhearted at best, but she cracks a smile. “How so?”

“Well.” He pokes at his ear with a finger, pretending to scratch an itch so he comes across less twitchy than he currently feels. “Frankly, I enjoyed every second of what happened earlier Kara, and I wouldn’t hate it if you felt like ‘slipping-up’ again. _But_ ,” he adds quickly, seeing her blanch, “you’re right. We do work together, it is in our best interests to be as solid a team as possible, and trying to figure out if we can pick up where we left off could cloud all that. Make a gigantic mess right when we least need it.”

“Yes!” Relief floods her face. “That’s it exactly! And it’s not that I’m _not_ attracted to you, because ah-ha- _ha,_ I think we both know that I—oh, crap.” She slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes widening into little blue orbs. “That’s not what I meant to say.”

“Wow.” Mon-El nearly bites through his tongue as he fights off a laugh. “Not _not_ attracted, okay. Um…you do know a rejection isn’t supposed to be flattering, right?”

She groans. “Believe it or not, yes. I just kind of suck at it. Especially with you.”

_Especially with you._

What does that mean?

 “Okay?” he asks, hoping his now-burning curiosity isn’t too apparent. “Did you reject me a lot of times in the past or something?”

 “Not…really,” she says hesitantly. “But wait, I thought you remembered?”

“I do and I don’t.” His brows knit together as he thinks. “Like, I’ve got a lot of new memories, but it’s sometimes hard to distinguish between memories of things that actually happened and memories of things I’ve dreamed, so I’m never totally sure.”

A strange, almost forlorn looks flits over her face.

“What?” he says.

“You dream about me?” she asks, her voice dropping to a level that’s just barely above a whisper.

It’s not the smartest thing he’s ever done, but he scoots his chair over to hers, so close that their knees almost knock. Before she can react—back away, withdraw her question, tell him this isn’t going to help anything—he reaches into her lap and picks up her hand, inwardly marveling at how delicate her stronger-than-steel fingers seem as they curl around his.

“I honestly don’t know,” he says gently, looking her straight in the eye. “But I think I used to when I was—wherever I was. And I think it made me very happy when I did.”

 “I dreamed about you when you were gone,” she mumbles. A tear trickles down her cheek and he hates watching her smear it away, but she’s already allowing him to hold her hand and he doesn’t want to jeopardize that by offering support when she’s trying to sever ties. “I missed you so much. And it was hard, and I just can’t…”

He forces a chuckle, thumb skidding back and forth across the little mountain ridges of her knuckles. “I’m guessing that’s the other reason you want to avoid going down that road again?”

She nods. “I just…I think it’s better this way, you know? For both of us. If we decide to leave everything that happened—leave _us_ —in the past and just focus instead on being friends and partners and…saving the day?”

Mon-El hesitates, things like _No, Are you out of your mind?_ and _That’s a terrible idea!_ trumpeting through his head. The question is, should he say any of it? Kara’s obviously not comfortable with the way this situation is going, and he doesn’t want to be the reason she gets distracted and maybe even injured during a mission. Besides, she’s not him—they’re completely different beings and this kind of method might work for her. If she genuinely believes that ignoring their past and moving forward as friends will help, the _least_ he can do is shut up and play along, isn’t it?

“Well,” he says, resting his other hand atop hers and giving it a brief squeeze, “I have no idea whether that’s best or not, but we can definitely give it a try, right?”

She nods eagerly, hair bouncing. “Friends, then?” she suggests as he stands.

“Friends,” he confirms, hauling her to her feet (which he hopes to Rao he’s not doing purely because it gives him an excuse to prolong the handholding). “Always.”

Her smile is shaky and cautious, but still brighter somehow than a sudden burst of sunshine. “Yay.”

“Yeah.” He studies her face for a moment before clearing his throat. “By the way.” Reaching up, he grasps the thin chain around his neck and follows the cool trail of metal up toward the clasp. The necklace’s weight is familiar and comforting and he experiences a slight pang of regret as his fingers go to unhook it, but now that he knows for sure who gave it to him, he wants to set things right. “Before I forget…I think this belongs to you.”

“No! No, it’s fine,” Kara tells him, the hand she puts out to stop him coming infuriatingly near his chest. “You keep it. I…well, I gave it to you. I’d like it if you wore it for a while. I mean, it seems to have done its protecting job so far,” she jokes. “It got me here once, now it got you here…”

“All right.” Sternly ordering himself to not take this as some kind of hopeful omen (and doing it anyway), he tucks the necklace back inside his shirt. “Pick a number.”

“What?”

He smiles. “Are you going to ask questions or pick a number?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Seven. Now, _why_?”

“Because.” He taps the spot just above his windpipe, where the pendant hangs. “We’ll take it in turns. In seven years, I’ll take this off and give it back to you.”

Her lips part, and for a few seconds, it looks like she’s going to protest. But then she gives a small nod.  

“Okay,” she says, pushing her chair back in its place and starting for the door. “But Mon-El, seven years is a long time.”

He frowns, replacing his own chair. “Yes, it is. And your point would be…?”

“A lot can change.”

Mon-El’s eyebrow rises. “And your point would be…?” he repeats.

One hand resting on the door handle, she pauses. “Neither of us knows where we’ll be in seven years. Maybe you’ll be living on a distant planet in some distant galaxy. Maybe I will. Maybe we’ll hate each other with every fiber of our beings like we did when we first met.”

Hate each other? He very nearly bursts out laughing at that one. Seven years is a while, but he seriously doubts that seven _hundred_ years would be long enough to make him hate this woman. And as for living on a distant planet—yeah, that’s not happening either. Not if he has anything to say about it. However things started between them, Kara’s a part of his life now and he intends to fight alongside her for as long as she’ll let him. Even if it’s only in the friend capacity, he’ll still count himself lucky, and he really hopes she knows that, because he doesn’t think he can tell her without announcing that he suspects he _wants_ to see if they can’t figure out how to pick up where they left off.

“So what you’re saying is you want your necklace back now?” he queries. “Just in case?”

“ _No._ I—” She sighs, resting her forehead against the doorframe for an instant. “What I’m saying in the most roundabout way possible is…life is weird. What if, in seven years, everything’s changed?”

“Hmm.” He shrugs, failing to see how a hypothetical scenario like that affects anything. “That’s true, but so is the opposite. What if, in seven years, nothing’s changed?”

Is he imagining it, or does she flinch?

“Well,” she says abruptly before he can make up his mind, giving him a quick smile. “No point in standing here philosophizing about it all night. Guess we’ll see, huh?”

“Yep.” He follows her out into the hall, listening closely for the telltale click as he tugs the door shut behind them. “Guess so.”

They small-talk all the way back to the control room about why they think J’onn’s called a special briefing session first thing in the morning and then Kara takes her leave, but Mon-El’s mind never really strays away from that last piece of conversation. Which, in all truthfulness, annoys him. He has no desire whatsoever to dwell on what may or may not be. The future is a complex, tricky thing, and something tells him he had better just let well enough alone before he overthinks himself into some kind of fretful stew.

It doesn’t matter, though. As soon as he falls asleep, the future visits him in his dreams, and as it turns out, he’s right: after seven years, nothing’s changed. He knows Kara. Kara knows him. They’re both happy, they’re both working together, they make an excellent crime-fighting team, and they’re still very good friends and nothing else.

He’s not sure how to feel about that.

That is, the present version of himself is uncertain. A lot of his dream-time is spent in the head of Future Mon-El, so he knows quite well how that guy feels about the whole thing.

(He hates it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Title taken from the chorus of “...Ready For It” by Taylor Swift. On a related note, BEWARE: Reputation was one of my Christmas presents, so I’ll probably be naming everything after songs on that album. This is my apology in advance.  
> *Apology II: Sorry about how long it was between updates! I got sick over the holidays and have been busy ever since, so this took forever to finish revising.  
> *Apology III: This chapter rambled like none other, and I couldn’t fix it. I must’ve rearranged it six different times, but I’m still annoyed with it because I feel like it’s simultaneously way too long and not detailed enough. So, I’m sorry I made you guys wait a while for this. It was so much better in my head; I promise :’(  
> *RANDOM NOTE: if you’re ever feeling a bit down because of the Karamel S3 storyline, do yourself a favor and look up “My Favorite Wife” starring the always amazing Cary Grant & Irene Dunne. It’s an absolute classic, and even though it’s a comedy rather than a drama, the storyline might seem familiar. (It was 7 years for them, too.) “Move Over, Darling” with Doris Day/Rock Hudson is fun as well, but isn’t quite as good.  
> *Random note regarding the show: MON-EL TAUGHT THEM ABOUT BON JOVI. MON-EL. TAUGHT THEM. ABOUT. BON JOVI. Every time I think I can’t love this boy more, he just…ugh. If I didn’t love Kara so much, I would be so insanely envious of her. (Also, I LOVE Brainy and I’ve adopted him. He’s my fictional techie child now along with Winn and Cisco.)  
> ***NOTE FOR NEXT CHAPTER: There will be a fairly large time jump between this chapter and the next. I tried to figure a way around it, but there wasn’t one that fit how I’d imagined the story when I plotted it, so if you’re wondering why it’s got a lighter tone and only a mention or two of Reign, that’s why. (Also, the next chapter involves Westallen, so if you hate them, you may want to skip it.)  
> ***As always, thanks for reading/commenting (I'll be checking and replying to last chapter's comments later today), and I hope you guys are doing good. Merry/Happy Late Everything! <3


	6. As Time Goes By (Five More Years)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara’s relationship with Mon-El seems to be at a comfortable place now, but a weekend mission to Earth 1 reminds her that appearances can be deceiving and opinions can differ.
> 
> **Includes some Westallen, so if you don’t like them, be warned. I don’t want to blindside any Snowbarry fans.

It’s a beautiful afternoon in National City. Perfect, even. Bright, clear, windy, and the ideal mix of crisp air and warm sunshine that screams _autumn_ almost as loudly as the sheer number of civilians wearing scarves and the multitude of café chalkboards advertising pumpkin-themed treats. Soaring high above the puffy clouds, Kara can’t help wondering if life’s always like this—first calm, then erratic, then calm again as if the earlier instability never existed. It’s only been a few years since they all almost died fighting Reign, but somehow, world apocalypses aren’t close to being anywhere near the forefront of her mind. In point of fact, they haven’t been for quite some time. Life’s fallen into something of a routine these days, and the threat of catastrophic events just don’t seem to worry her the way they used to—like Sara Lance joked a few years ago at the New Year’s party that kind of wasn’t thanks to a thrill-seeking cult of metahumans, when you think about it, thwarting the end of the world isn’t a bad way to catch up with all the friends you rarely have time to visit.

Plus…there’s no denying that peace is more than a little nerve-wracking for superheroes. For one thing, it feels horribly like the calm before a storm (because it usually is). And for another, when it’s _not_ the calm before the storm, it’s dull as all get out.

Like today. She’s on her way back from a successful but tremendously unexciting stint of ocean-traffic rescue that’s left her smelling kind of fishy—literally—and when the phone rings, her first thought is that she doesn’t want to answer it. Not from some latent fear of bad news, but because she knows it’s probably just Winn wanting to brag on his most recent Oregon Trail trade, and she doesn’t want to transfer the Eau de Carp scent to her phone just so she can hear all about how many pounds of bacon he got for one bottle of ipecac or whatever. But conscience pinches hard in the end—after all, experience has taught her that life’s favorite moment to attack is just when things reach the complacent stage—so she makes a hasty landing on the sidewalk outside the DEO and extracts the phone from her boot. A quick check of the screen reveals that it’s _not_ Winn, but her favorite fellow journalist from another world. Which immediately piques her curiosity, since they all have an agreement to not call during the days except in extreme cases of news that just can’t keep.

 “Iris, hey,” she says, sniffing an arm as she strides toward the building and gasping in horror as wave upon wave of pure _fish_ overwhelms her senses. Good Rao, she reeks. “What’s up?”

“Oh my God, girl. I’m so glad I caught you. You’re not in the middle of fighting or writing, are you?”

“No,” Kara laughs, absentmindedly wondering if she can make this grossness remotely worthwhile by visiting an alley with plenty of cute, stray cats who might feel like playing with a walking can of tuna. Or is that smell salmon? Maybe swordfish? “I’m almost at the DEO right now. Like, I’m literally outside it. And actually, things are pretty chill around here these days.”

“Okay, awesome. Listen, Barry hasn’t called you recently or anything, has he?”

Kara frowns. “Uh, no, he hasn’t. Why? Is something wrong? He’s not all evil and emo again, is he? Because if he is, you know we could—”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Iris chuckles. “Just, if he does call, ix-nay on the not izzy-bay, all right? You can tell him no.”

“What?” She makes a careful takeoff so she doesn’t lose her grip on the phone and floats gently down onto the DEO’s landing. “Tell him no? Why? Is this like a bet or something?”

A sigh crackles over the line. “No. It’s kind of a long story. With a lot of super-boring details, no pun intended. Just—there’s a strong possibility that he’s going to ask a favor, so feel free to tell him you already have plans, okay?”

 “Well, okay.” Kara gives a thumbs-up followed by a one-handed raise-the-roof gesture to Winn, who’s proudly calling her attention to a screen that shows a very fancy-looking farmhouse—clearly, in the time it took her to get from the docks back to HQ, he successfully led his wagon train to the Beaver State with a lot of money and tradeable goods. “But Iris, if you guys need anything, you know I’d be happy to—”

“Kara?”

She turns at the sound of the voice to see Mon-El coming toward her from the direction of the briefing room and her mouth falls open, the rest of her sentence forgotten. When she left earlier, he was spinning aimless circles in a chair next to Winn and helping Alex shred papers. Now he’s a complete and total mess, the red of his suit dotted with weird, pale yellow splotches and his hair stiff and spiked, like he tried to rock a Mohawk and failed miserably.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, blinking a little as she surveys the visual wreckage. “What is it?”

“Do you have any big plans this weekend?”

She frowns, confusion momentarily disrupting curiosity. Big weekend plans? Yeah, that’s a good one. Her weekend plans consist of a sweatshirt, leggings, takeout, her couch, and an _I Love Lucy_ marathon. Which she’s like, eighty percent sure she told him _last_ weekend when he dropped by her place to borrow the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy (which she hadn’t yet returned to Winn) and found her binging _Gilligan’s Island_ while she painted every toenail a different color.

“No. No big plans. Why?”

“Tell him no!” Iris’ voice squawks faintly in the distance.

Okay, now this is just getting weird. “What?” Kara says into the phone. “Don’t worry Iris, it’s Mon-El, not Barry.”

“No, actually it is Barry,” Mon-El explains, holding up the phone she’s just now noticed is in his hand. “He wants to know if we can watch the twins. Wally and Jesse are looking at wedding venues on a couple other earths this weekend, and nobody else is fast enough to catch them if need be. The twins that is, not Wally and Jesse.”

_Oh,_ Kara thinks. Now she gets it. Ever since Barry and Iris’ energetic little twins learned to move they’ve posed a challenge for sitters. They haven’t achieved their father’s speed levels by any means, but their powers did develop a lot sooner than anyone could have expected, and keeping up with them is a bit daunting. She’s played with the kids before with no trouble, but she’s also seen their exhausted uncle fall asleep after a very rambunctious playdate with his cheek pillowed on a slice of pizza while their soon-to-be-aunt chugged energy drinks by the gallon just to keep her eyes open.

“Of course we can watch them,” she says, motioning for Mon-El to relay the message to Barry. “Iris, is that what you were worried about?”

“Yes. I _told_ him not to bother you guys in case you were in the middle of a crisis or just wanted to kick back and relax, but he—”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” She squints again at the blobby stuff all over Mon-El, trying to figure out what in the world that junk is while he chuckles at whatever it is Barry’s saying. “Things are extremely under control around here right now, and anyway, we’d love to help. Anything I need to know about cute speedster babies that I don’t already?”

Iris laughs ruefully. “Yeah, after last Thanksgiving, I seriously doubt it. Again, I’m so, _so_ sorry about the weird food-painting thing. They’re still not the neatest eaters, but my dad’s like the child whisperer and, good news for everyone, the kids do understand that scattering one’s dinner is not acceptable behavior now.”

“What, so I won’t get to see any more frescoes made out of marinara sauce?” Kara jokes, giggling as she recalls wandering into the kitchen to ask Iris if she felt up to proofreading an article only to discover what looked very much like a gruesome crime scene. “That’s a bummer.”

“Oh, God,” Iris groans. “No, thankfully, we’re through the Michelangelo phase for the most part. Fair warning though, they are _very_ into Disney stuff at the moment. Barry and I thought it would be fun to introduce them to some of our favorites, but it kind of epically backfired.”

“Really?” Kara frowns, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Halfway through the motion, her fingers touch a slimy piece of something that she really hopes isn’t a dead sardine and she recoils. “How can you possibly go wrong with Disney?” she asks, turning in a semi-circle before reason kicks in and she realizes that spinning around won’t increase her field of vision.

“ _Frozen,_ ” Mon-El calls, clearly receiving the same instructions from Barry. “Caitlin.”

“What he said.” Iris huffs out another sigh. “Cisco thought it would be fun to show them that one _,_ and now they’re convinced that Caitlin’s both Elsa _and_ Anna, and they keep badgering her to sing every time they see her. She’s too nice to admit it’s driving her crazy, but…yeah. It totally is and we’re trying to get them to stop _._ ”

“Okay, so yes Disney, but no _Frozen,_ ” Kara says, trying not to laugh as she makes a mental note and waves an arm at her partner to get his attention. “Anything else?”

“I’m sure there is, but nothing I can think of right this second,” Iris answers. “Look, Kara, you’re sure this isn’t an imposition? I mean, this technically isn’t even our actual anniversary weekend. Barry and I can always—”

“No! Of course not.” Pointing to the area of her head where the slimy thing lurks, Kara mouths a _Help me_ at Mon-El, who nods and steps closer, shifting the phone to his other ear so he can remove the piece of…seaweed? He holds it up for her inspection and they both wrinkle their noses at the gray-green thing. “Don’t you guys dare feel bad about this. We love hanging out with your kids, and besides, how often do all of us have lulls in superhero work that actually sync up? Just tell me what time you guys need us there.”

“Any time before one or after three pm on Friday is good,” Iris says. “That’s naptime, and I know it seems like we’re charging their little batteries just so they can zip around later and torture you, but I promise, it is _the_ shrewdest act of self-preservation you’ll ever come across. The meltdowns around dinnertime if they’re not rested…”

“Intense?” Kara suggests, rolling her eyes at Mon-El when he shakes the soggy plant off his hand and onto the floor with a flourish.

“Girl.” The flatness of the voice on the other end of the line makes her chuckle. “Central City’s been through less intense tornadoes—oh, shoot. Come on, guys.”

“Problem?” Kara inquires, her ears picking up what sounds remarkably like a pig squealing in the background.

Iris sighs out a laugh. “Yeah, I’m going to have to go. They’re playing trains and Dawnie just derailed the Don Express. Cue the sibling drama.”

“All right, I’ll let you go now.” Kara smiles as the yells for _Mommy!_ begin. “See you guys soon, and take care.”

“Yep, you too. And thanks again, Kara. I really appreciate it. Tell Mon-El I said hi.”

“Not a problem. And I will.” After the telltale click, Kara lowers her phone and turns her attention back to the other occupant of the hallway. “Iris says hi,” she announces after he ends his call.

“So does Barry.” He scoots the seaweed to the side with a toe, acknowledging her sniff of disapproval with only a smirk. “Caitlin and Cisco too. And Harry might’ve also, but it was a grunt so I couldn’t really tell.”

She nods. “Sounds about right,” she says before tilting her head to the side, eyebrows raised. “So.”

Mon-El clicks his tongue in response and arches his brows to match. “So…?” he repeats.

“Hello?” Laughing, she gestures toward him like a fashion designer showing off their latest creation. “Are you just going to stand here and let me wonder? What’s the scoop? What mission did you go on, and what on earth happened to you while you were on it?”

“Oh, that.” He grimaces. “It was a pudding factory disaster. Happened sixty-five _seconds_ after you left, and no. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“A _pudding—_ okay.” She pokes experimentally at one of the little patches adorning his suit for a moment then swipes a little blob off his shoulder. “That’s…new.”

“No!” he yelps, smacking her hand away when she starts to stick the finger in her mouth. “That may still have sewage in it!”

Kara stills, staring dumbfounded at her hand. “Sewage? As in _sewage,_ sewage?”

“Yes. As in sewage sewage.”

He marches on without a backward glance, and she jogs a couple steps to catch up, curiosity overflowing. Neither of them are strangers to gross hero work, but this sounds like quite an experience even by her standards. Plus from the haughty way he’s marching along, she suspects it’s one of those funny-to-everyone-except-the-person-involved kind of stories and she kind of wants to hear it.

“Okay, so…why might there still be sewage mixed into the pudding?” she inquires. “What kind of pudding factory disaster was it, exactly? Did it involve the waste-treatment plant by any chance, and actually, what defines a disaster at a pudding factory? Overflowing machines? Angry stirring robots?”

Mon-El gives her a look. “I _said,_ I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“All right.” She bites her lip, trying desperately to rein in a snort at his overly-dignified expression. “Um, before I leave off completely though, is sewage-pudding what’s in your hair, too?”

“Well, it’s certainly not hair gel,” he answers in the tone of the greatly-put-upon. “Rao, I need a bath.”

“Yeah, you do,” Kara chortles, laughter finally getting the best of her as they near the locker rooms. He’s oozing annoyance—in addition to pudding—and for some reason, she just finds the whole thing so hilarious that she can’t stop giggling. “But hey, I heard J’onn say he was going to work on getting the mail caught up today. Maybe you should go see if he needs any envelopes sealed before you wash off all your sewage glue.”

“Uh-huh.” Cocking an eyebrow, he breaks his starchy attitude long enough to shoot her a smirk. “You know, now that I think of it, that’s actually a really good idea? I mean, it’s _such_ a good idea, in fact, that I think it deserves a hug. Like a big, giant, vanilla and—”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Flattening herself immediately against the wall, Kara sticks a hand out like she’s trying to deflect a bullet when he acts like he’s going to take a step forward. “My suit’s still kinda clean. I don’t want you getting pudding all over it, so you can just stay right over there with your icky self.”

“Yeah, okay. I see how it is.” He feints toward her, bursting into laughter when she shrieks and threatens to heatvision him if he moves another muscle. “Oh, relax. Your super suit can rest easy. Because truth be told…” He leans forward a little, sniffing the air loudly. “You kinda smell terrible, and I don’t think I want whatever it is you’re wearing on me.”

“ _Hey_.” She flicks his nose before he can dodge, a chuckle sneaking out despite her best intentions. “I smell pungent, not terrible, thank you _._ ”

“Right, of course,” he agrees, voice solemn though his eyes twinkle suspiciously. “Pungent. Not terrible. Not at all like a sushi restaurant. Definitely not like a bait factory, mm- _mm_.”

“You know what?” Propping her hands on her hips, she jerks her head in fake annoyance toward the end of the hall. “Go shower. Don’t you have a date tonight you have to get ready for?”

“Uh, no. That was last night, actually,” he says, squinting suddenly at his ring and then scraping some flakes of dried pudding off it. “Not tonight. Points for closeness, though.”

“Thank you. I do try.”

Kara bumps her fists against her quads in an awkward little rhythm, a twinge of guilt niggling at her. She isn’t, strictly speaking, being completely honest. She knows exactly when his date was supposed to be, because she was there at the bar—at the counter in mid-conversation with him, as a matter of fact—when he got asked on it. She’s even the one who encouraged him to accept, and she’s been dying all day to find out how it went. She just…hasn’t been able to figure out how to open the conversation without making it look like she’s interested for reasons that she’s not.

“So?” she says finally, elbowing him in the arm when she’s unable to stand the curiosity any longer. “How’d it go?”

He laughs, elbowing her back. “Uh, thanks for asking, but—not good. And by _not good,_ I really mean _bad._ ”

“Oh.” She tries not to sound unsurprised, but it’s difficult. He’s just had the same response too many times for her to react with genuine shock anymore. Which is a little worrying.

Thanks to the skills he honed doing things he still doesn’t remember, Mon-El now officially works as a kind of go-between for the DEO and the NCPD and only tends bar part-time as a favor to the people that gave him his first job. But he gets hit on as much if not more than he did before, and it’s begun to concern her lately how he has all these opportunities, yet nothing to show for it. The conversation they had the night they both showed up to delete some security footage hasn’t been spoken of since it occurred, but she hasn’t forgotten any part of it, and she knows he hasn’t either. It’s one of those things that lurks in the shadows of everything they do, and she’s haunted by a fear that it might taint their current bond. They’ve built a rock-solid friendship over the last five years, and though he’s always encouraged her to go on dates, she can’t quite shake the suspicion that he’s deliberately sabotaging his chances at happiness because of her. (Which sounds extraordinarily arrogant now that she considers it, but still. A hunch is a hunch, and very often, her hunches turn out to be correct.)

“How bad is _bad_?” she ventures.

He groans comically. “Remember that date you told me about where you sneezed on the guy’s spaghetti?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” she answers, shuddering in spite of herself at the cringe-worthy recollection. “Why? You didn’t, did you?”

“No,” he chuckles, making a face. “Just using that example for illustration purposes. It was a less dramatic bad than that one, yet also a much worse bad. I’ll give you the gory details later, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s a date,” she says, and immediately wishes she could bite through her tongue. Rao. Why does she always _do_ things like this? “I mean…”

Thankfully, though, Mon-El doesn’t even blink. Or awkwardly pretend to not notice her little gaffe, which would’ve been awful.

“Mark your calendar,” he says cheerfully, sauntering off toward the corner. “And oh by the way, if you’re trying to impress me, you might want to wash off that really special wharf aroma. And maybe pick some of that green stuff out of your hair?”

“Hey!”

She goes to whack him on the arm but he anticipates the move this time and is already off and running, his laughter trailing back to her as he disappears around the bend. In the distance, the door to the locker room bangs shut, and she rolls her eyes. He’ll be in there for hours now, so she might as well head home to get cleaned up. Besides, she can always get him back later when he drops by her place for the date breakdown that’s become something of a weird little ritual of theirs over the past five years.

_Five years_.

The weight of those two words strikes her all at once and Kara shakes her head, gnawing absently at a fingernail as she props a shoulder against the wall. Because _wow_. Five whole years have come in and gone out with all the silent steadiness of an ebbing tide. She really shouldn’t be counting anymore, but it’s like she can’t stop herself. It’s a habit now, and beyond the fact that habits have always been hard for her to break, there’s a deep level of comfort in the familiarity of it all. For better or worse, she’s committed to keeping track of the time that’s passed since he returned the way she once kept track of the time that passed when he left, yet she can’t bear to think about why she’s so compelled to do it. It’s just too difficult—the equivalent of self-torture, if only on the internal level, and she refuses to let that happen. She’s made her decision, she’s positive it’s the best one, and she’ll stick to it if it kills her. If she suffers a pang of regret now and then, here and there, so be it. At least she’s no longer at high risk for overwhelming pain, right?

And anyway, the reality is that life could be worse. A _lot_ worse. After all, the two of them are still friends. Co-workers. Partners. They don’t do that uncomfortable thing where they avoid each other or find excuses to cut all interactions short. They just…coexist together. Calmly and beautifully. She goes on a date every once in a while and so does he, but nothing really works out for either of them. In her case, she doesn’t consider it all that remarkable—she is, after all, pretty much just going on the occasional date so she can tell her concerned family and friends that she really is ‘giving love a chance.’

But in his case…well, she just can’t be sure. Whenever she asks him why—often in the DEO breakroom where they like to hang out in between crime crises, and oftener still in her apartment over cold leftovers that gross out Alex and Winn—he always laughs it off and comes up with some ridiculous reason why it didn’t work: they’re kind of scary, or they hate how many jokes he tells and think he ought to be more serious about life, or they won’t even _try_ pineapple pizza before condemning it to the ninth circle of food hell. And then, without fail, he asks her why nothing’s worked for _her_ , and she’s forced to shrug and say she doesn’t know, that she guesses she just isn’t their type. And though that is technically true, it’s a partial truth at best—she’s certainly not what most of the guys she dates have in mind when they first ask her out, but if she wanted to, she could make it work. Easily.

The catch is that she just _doesn’t_ want to. Not anymore, and certainly not with any of the guys who actually bother to show interest in her. She’s long past that phase she went through in her very early twenties where being alone felt like it just might be her greatest fear. She’s experienced enough of life now to know that loneliness is a pain preferable to loss, and she doesn’t care to get attached to someone who can only ever be a pleasant detour rather than a destination. It’s just not worth all the trouble. Her life is orderly and peaceful again (or at any rate, as orderly and peaceful as a superhero’s life can ever be), and if she occasionally feels a hollow little ache way down deep in her heart when she heads into the bar and sees some other girl draped all over the counter flirting with her partner in crime-fighting, at least she’s not opening up the floodgates for another personal loss. Now that the two of them are committed to being just friends, now that she knows he can handle himself, she doesn’t have to worry about him. She can just...relax.

Except the worrying keeps happening anyway.

She hates it, too, because it almost seems like the more she tries to ignore her concerns, the stronger they grow. The second they arrive on Earth One for instance, she can’t stop scanning everything in sight for guns or traces of lead. It doesn’t, of course, make any sense to do that since he’s wearing his suit, he’s traveled here several times before without incident, and it’s extremely unlikely that a bullet would even appear, let alone be able to find its mark in the well-fortified against metahuman/alien/criminal mastermind attack Allen house, but she does it just the same. Compulsively. Then, when they make their first solo flight as official babysitters and take the kids to play on the little playground Cisco built for them in STAR Labs, she invents a weak excuse to be the first one in the door just so she can ensure that he won’t get randomly scratched on anything that might test the limits of the serum that even now, she doesn’t fully trust to protect him.

And later, when they’re sitting on the carpet in Barry and Iris’ speedster-baby-proofed living room, watching Disney movie after Disney movie while each of them tries hard to rock their designated twin to sleep, she narrowly escapes a completely irrational freak-out when he chokes on a piece of popcorn while trying to sing along to Aladdin with Dawnie. He belly-laughs the whole thing off and so do the twins (who naturally want him to do it again just so they can watch the popcorn fly out of his mouth when Kara performs the Heimlich maneuver on him), but Kara finds it’s impossible for her to do the same. Even after the twins fall asleep and Mon-El passes out on the couch, head pillowed on a fluffy blue stuffed bear that he ripped the batteries out of exactly two minutes into babysitting so the thing could no longer caterwaul its annoyingly cheerful ditty, she’s still turning the incident over in her mind. Why does the prospect of him choking on food scare her more than the kryptonite-wielding baddie she faced just last week without batting an eye? Why, when she knows good and well that it’s close to impossible for a dried kernel of corn to do him any temporary—let alone any lasting—damage, did her heart jump straight into her throat, and why can’t she let the whole thing go?

It’s extremely perplexing, and by the time her co-sitter wakes up and comes over to take his turn being on guard for any speedster-baby emergencies, she still hasn’t figured it out—or so she tells herself, seeing as how she’s a little uncomfortable with the ghost of a suspicion that’s beginning to dawn. So she pushes the whole thing to the back of her mind and decides she just won’t think about it anymore.

And she doesn’t.

Not when she wakes up the next morning to the luscious and unmistakable fragrance of bacon wafting through the house and finds herself wrapped in the blanket she brought with her from home but definitely didn’t think to grab before falling asleep on the couch. Not when she enters the kitchen to find Valor himself demonstrating the proper way to make Mickey Mouse pancakes to an enthusiastic audience in speed-reducing highchairs, and certainly not when Valor turns at the welcoming shouts, grins sunnily, and refers to her as Sleeping Beauty. (Who she absolutely, positively does _not_ resemble just now because she can feel a gross drabble of drool pooling at the corner of her mouth and her hair is still in the weird, lopsided pigtails Dawnie’s baby hands styled it into last night.)

No.

As far as she’s concerned, it’s all just a side effect of being in Responsible Adult Mode—her determination to take good care of the twins accidentally spilled over to include Mon-El. That’s why she doesn’t think twice about things like wiping his face with a napkin when he ends up covered in ketchup because he let their small charges feed him his Big Belly Burger fries, or asking him repeatedly if he’s _sure_ he’s all right when he trips over one of the tacked-down power cables at STAR Labs while running laps with the kids and almost skins an elbow. The worrying isn’t a big deal, nor is it anything that requires her usual overthinking skills. It’s just…a part of how things are now, and she refuses to dwell on it.

But when Barry and Iris return a couple days later, her resolution gets somewhat challenged. While the twins drag Iris off to their bedroom to see the stuffed animal fort they built with Mon-El and then insisted on burying him in, she and her oldest superhero friend speed around the room picking up plastic blocks, oversized puzzle pieces, random little figurines from Big Belly Burger kids’ meals, and various and sundry other pieces of toddler-clutter. And the whole time they’re tidying up and she’s telling him how many movies they watched, how his energetic offspring behaved, how she and Mon-El thought at one point that they were going to have to buy out a grocery store to keep the four of them fed until Joe happened by on his way to work and advised calling Cisco and getting him to send over some of his high-powered, super-metabolism fighting snacks, Barry keeps grinning at her with all the subtlety of the cat that ate the canary.

“ _What_?” she says finally, chuckling in mild exasperation because she can tell he’s not really absorbing any of the information. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing. Just…wondering,” he answers.

His tone’s casual, but the smile on his face says there’s a joke or something involved, and she chuckles again.

“Wondering what?” she inquires, waving a hand toward the coffee table where a pack of vicious-looking plastic dinosaurs stand surveying the ruins of an intense Millennium Falcon/Thomas the Tank Engine battle. “How two tiny little Rugrats could possibly make this big of a mess?”

“Now that you mention it, that too, but really…” Barry glances over his shoulder and leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m just curious. How are things going with the boyfriend?”

Kara stiffens, her head whipping around automatically toward the hall. She doubts Mon-El can hear anything in here over the earsplitting happy-squeals of the twins, but she still doesn’t want to take any chances. Especially since she spent a good portion of the weekend awkwardly trying to explain to two very indiscreet three-year-olds that Kawa and Monny are not like every blonde and brunette Disney couple because they aren’t actually a couple.

“Barry, he is not my boyfriend,” she whispers—right before an enormous sense of déjà vu smacks her upside the head and she winces. Because haven’t they had this exact same conversation before? And hasn’t Barry given her this exact same look of amused skepticism before? “I mean, uh…” she flounders. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, no. No, I definitely get it.” Barry nods solemnly, but his eyes twinkle in a way that’s annoyingly close to evil as he strokes his chin.  “He’s your…nothing, right? That’s what you told me when Music Meister had us, and that’s what you said last year at the Christmas party when Felicity asked why you weren’t taking advantage of all that mistletoe.”

“Correct,” Kara mutters, frowning as she realizes that the little Rapunzel and Flynn dolls the twins were playing with earlier now have red and blue bandanas tied around their necks in suspiciously cape-like fashion. “I—kind of thought that conversation cleared things up.”

“Uh-huh. It did.” He purses his lips. “Except the thing is, that’s also what you said the year before that at Thanksgiving when Sara asked if that’s why you kept stealing food off his plate. And the year before that when everybody got together for the baby shower and we ended up having to fend off that massive metahuman attack, that’s what you told Cisco when he asked if you guys could flirt quieter while he was working on the sonic blast transmitters. And the year before _that—_ ”

She exhales loudly. “Barry…” Oh, how she doesn’t want to talk about this. At all. Even Alex has accepted that fact, although it took her a while to get there and every now and then she still sends a disapproving, tightlipped sort of look Kara’s way that speaks volumes Kara has zero interest in hearing. “It’s not like the time with Music Meister, okay? This is—things are different now, is all.”

He holds up his hands, mouth turned down in a perfect (and irritating) imitation of a sad clown. “I’m just saying.”

“Well, please don’t just say.” Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure no one else is listening, she drops her voice to a decibel barely above a whisper just in case. “Look. I’m not mad at him or anything. And it’s not that I don’t care about him—I do. A lot, actually. He’s one of my best friends, if not my very best. It’s just that staying just friends seems to be the soundest option for us. I can’t handle losing another person I care about, and it’s not fair to him to do some weird, back-and-forth, _maybe someday I’ll be ready to open my heart and love you again_ kind of thing, especially when I need to stay strong and focused to do what I do. And after everything that happened with Reign, I can’t stand the idea of putting him in any more danger than he’s already in just because he works with me.”

Barry nods thoughtfully, waiting until she finishes her rant.

“Well,” he says, finally, “those are some good points. And I definitely hear you on the putting-in-danger part. That’s…easily my least favorite part about this business. But seriously, Kara, take it from someone who’s tried a _ridiculous_ number of times to keep his loved ones safe and has more to lose now than he ever did before…” He opens his arms, twirling around in a little circle. “All this? It’s risky. _Super_ risky, no pun intended. The more people you care about, the more ways you can be hurt, and the deeper the hurt’ll be if and when it comes. But in the end, love’s _always_ worth it. Always.”

She sighs—noisily, because for some reason, her friend’s advice makes a weird little prickle of sadness start up in her throat. “‘Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,’ huh?”

“Yes, exactly!” he agrees, pointing at her. “And…oh, that was sarcasm wasn’t it, so I’m guessing you’ve probably heard that one a few times already?”

Kara rolls her eyes, smiling in spite of herself at the recollection of all the occasions that precise piece of wisdom has been imparted to her. “Alex. J’onn. Then Sara, then Caitlin, then Mick.”

Barry’s eyebrows shoot up as she mentions the last name. “Mick? As in Rory?”

“One and the same.”

“Whoa.” He plunks down on the back of the sofa, staring sort of openmouthed. “I…wouldn’t have thought he’d know that reference. Or…that…he would ever say those words out loud.”

“Yeah, it was pretty strange.” Particularly since the advice was followed by a matter-of-fact _And if you’re too pigheaded to realize that, call me up and we can have some fun._ Which was more than a little high on the No Thank You Scale, and no way was she ever mentioning that to anyone.

“Well.” Barry shrugs, speeding across the room to deposit an armload of alphabet blocks into a wicker basket. “He’s right. So are Alex, J’onn, Sara, and Caitlin. And see, you know who told me all this in the first place? Oliver.”

Kara can’t help the giggle that escapes. “Yes, but have you ever noticed how Oliver doesn’t exactly follow his own advice? I mean, no offense, but he’s not got the greatest track record in the feelings department.”

“Yeah, he said exactly that, too.” Chuckling, Barry shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean he’s not right, though.”

“Doesn’t mean who’s not right?”

Barry jumps so hard he sends out little flashes of electricity, and Kara turns to see Iris standing in the doorway, eyebrows lifted, hair a little windblown.

“Oh, uh! Iris! Oliver, actually.” Barry points back and forth between himself and Kara. “We’re talking about…Oliver. No reason. Hey, remember how you used to have like, a crush on him? Why was that, again? Was it the abs, or the beard, or…?”

“Uh- _huh._ ” Iris narrows her eyes, giving Barry a look that Kara doesn’t quite understand—it’s clearly a warning of some sort, but there’s also a bit of a twinkle buried somewhere in there that sends up red flags and touches off all her inner Nancy Drew instincts. “Nice try Bartholomew, but now you’ve just confirmed you’re up to something.”

“Me? Up to something?” His voice is unnaturally shrill now, the words followed by an unconvincing laugh.  “Why, why would I be up to something?”

“I don’t know.” Iris props a hand on her hip. “You sure you’re not poking around an area you _swore_ to me not half an hour ago over tiramisu that you weren’t going to go all Dolly Levi on?”

“Dolly Levi?” Kara says, her sleep-deprived brain trying to recall where she’s heard that name. “Wait, like Barbra Streisand Dolly Levi?”

“No...” Barry mumbles weakly, shooting a guilty glance toward Kara before sending a cheesy, fake smile toward Iris. “I’m just, just…you know. Talking. I’m talking. To Kara. About…things. Nothing specific. Just things. There’s no Dolly Levi happening here. Well, maybe a little bit. But not much.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Laughing, Iris crosses the room to plant a quick kiss on his cheek before she heads over to the refrigerator. “Babe, come on—in the immortal words of the Beatles…let it _be_.”

Glancing back and forth between her two friends, Kara frowns. “Let _what_ be?” she demands, giving Barry a squinty stare of her own. “Iris? What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” Barry answers quickly, the guilty look intensifying. “Honest! I’m just…you know, trying to find out what’s going on in my friends’ lives. Iris!” he adds reproachfully, separating the word into two very distinct syllables as his wife starts humming a song that sounds vaguely familiar. “For real? I’m just asking!”

Kara’s frown deepens. She knows that tune; knows she’s heard it somewhere before, but the significance is lost on her since she can’t for the life of her seem to recall the lyrics. Judging by Barry’s reaction _he_ understands it though, and from the way he’s expostulating amid Iris’ giggles, she can only assume that it’s got something to do with this whole conversation. With her.

But there’s no time to inquire about the song’s name, because Mon-El enters then with a squirming twin tucked under each arm, asking if Kara will please x-ray Don since one of the smaller toy cars is missing and Dawnie keeps insisting that her brother ate it when Mon-El’s back was turned. A quick scan reveals that the little rascal did indeed manage to swallow a small hot rod, so while Iris calls Caitlin to find out what kind of complications might result from a three-year-old with spotty healing powers ingesting a plastic toy, Barry phases the car out of his son’s stomach and administers a stern lecture on the dangers of consuming non-food related things, and Kara helps Mon-El corral Dawnie, who’s so amped up by all the excitement that she’s running circles around everyone’s feet and squealing at the top of her voice.

After that, it’s rather obviously goodbye and nap time. It takes no less than four attempts for Kara to hug Iris because Dawnie keeps insisting on throwing her chubby little arms around one or both of their necks and making it an awkward—and sticky, since Mon-El apparently didn’t stop her from snacking on strawberry Jell-O with her bare hands—group hug, and the best Barry can achieve with her and Mon-El is a two-knuckle attempt at a fist-bump because he’s now holding onto Don. (Which is no small accomplishment as Don’s spotted a horsefly that he wants to catch.) Both Barry and Iris thank them profusely, gushing about the wonderful time they had on their early anniversary trip and how they’re repaying the favor with a giant gift card the instant they find a restaurant chain besides Big Belly Burger that exists in both their worlds, and the last thing Kara’s sensitive ears pick up as she and Mon-El step into the portal is Barry saying _Just think about it, Kara,_ the twins shrieking _Bah-bye!_ and Iris apologizing for the din.

The portal closes behind them with its usual buzzing _snap,_ and they spend several seconds just looking out over the darkened landscape in blissful silence. It’s evening now, and it seems they’ve emerged atop the roof of one of the taller buildings on the outskirts of the city. From this distance, the usual bustle of activity is more like a low, faraway hum, and after all the high-pitched excitement she’s heard this weekend, it’s a welcome change.

As perfectly on cue as if he’s read her thoughts, her companion groans.

“What?” she says, laughing out loud when he rests his forehead on the crown of her shoulder.

“I feel _old,_ Kara,” he announces without raising his head. “And not just a little old— _ancient_ old. Pretty sure that’s never happened to me before.”

“Aww.” She laughs again, reaching up to pat his head. He whines appreciatively at her touch, the response no doubt a side effect of being around three-year-olds all weekend, and she smiles as her fingers weave themselves almost automatically into the softness of his hair. “You tired?” she asks, drawing light circles into his scalp.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says with great emphasis. “Man, those little scamps have a lot of energy.”

“Yeah, no kidding. I—ooh.” A section of hair crackles beneath her fingertips, making her frown. “Mon-El,” she says, bending down a bit to take an experimental whiff, “I think you’ve got syrup in here.”

“Sweet,” he quips, laughing in a very self-satisfied sort of way when she grumbles in protest. “Oh, come on. That was a good one.”

“No, it really wasn’t.” Rolling her eyes, she surrenders in spite of herself to a chuckle that just won’t be denied and gives him a light thump on the head. “You should probably shower.”

“Hey, what do you know? It’s like I’ve come full circle from sewage pudding.” He grins, standing back up and slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder with a flourish.

“True,” Kara replies. Then, remembering his crack the other day about her unplanned aroma, she smirks. “Although you do smell a lot better this time.”

“Wow.” He lifts a brow, looking down his nose at her with exaggerated disdain even while his eyes dance. “ _Wow._ See if I ever give you my extra piece of bacon again, Grouper—I mean, _Super_ girl _._ ”

The whack she gives his arm makes them both laugh, and after they calm down, of course he dares her to race him back to the DEO. She agrees without hesitation, but right in the middle of cramming her regular clothes into her suitcase and teasing him for complaining about feeling old and then immediately suggesting a race, her brain suddenly identifies that elusive little tune Iris hummed, and she freezes.

_When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother what would I be…_

It all makes sense now—Dolly Levi, Barry’s clumsy denials, the way Iris tried to keep Barry from ‘bothering’ them in the first place. Barry’s in the group of people who think she’s making a mistake, and Iris, regardless of whether or not she agrees, is after him to stay out of it. To let it be.

Because just like the song she hummed…que sera, sera.

How long she stands there processing, she’s not sure. Next thing she knows, Mon-El’s waving a hand in front of her face.

“What?” she says, blinking fast to dispel her muddled thoughts. “Sorry. Can you repeat whatever you said? I—kind of zoned out.”

“I know you did.” He pokes a flyaway piece of hair out of her face, looking and sounding like he wants to laugh. “I said, are you still with me?”

“Yeah,” she answers, the immediacy of the response surprising her. “Yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

He doesn’t mean the question the way she’s seeing it, but even so…she _is_ still with him, isn’t she? And he’s with her. Despite everything that’s happened in their lives, they’re together. They’re a team. And for the first time in a very long while, the thought doesn’t fill her with abject terror or make her want to grab a bullhorn and start shouting explanations to anyone who’ll listen that _that doesn’t mean anything, okay?_  

Instead, a strange sort of calmness washes over her, and she gives him a much gentler punch on the arm as she tosses her hair back.

“Huh,” she says. “How about that?”

“O- _kay_.” His face wrinkles into one of those half-teasing, half-confused looks she’s come to know as well as the back of her own hand. “Not really sure what’s going on here, so is this…good? Bad? Something in between? You got to help me out. I definitely thought we’d be off and flying by now, not—standing and staring.”

Kara tilts her head to the side, mouth puckering into a weird scallop-shape as she contemplates her answer. She gets his drift, but it’s still a little disconcerting how appropriate his assessment is for multiple areas of their situation. Because really, on the rooftop of life, don’t the two of them always seem to just be standing and staring? Hasn’t flying always been a bit tricky with them?

Rao, that’s an awful metaphor. And wow, she’s still imitating a mime right now, isn’t she?

“I don’t know,” she says at length, putting up both hands to stop her hair from whipping into her face since the wind’s picked up. “If it’s good or bad, I mean. Guess only time’ll tell.”

He smirks, reaching out to give one of the same loose pieces of hair a quick tug. “Because that’s not cryptic,” he says in exactly the same tone she once used to tell him the same thing.

“Oh, hush.” Spreading her arms out wide, Kara grins at him over her shoulder. “Last one to J’onn is buying the next time we order takeout.”

“Deal.”

They take off quickly. She wins. (Of course.) He pretends to be annoyed (also of course), but after they’ve made their report to J’onn, he insists on paying his debt right away and they somehow end up on her couch, scarfing down orange chicken and enough potstickers to satisfy most armies while they giggle over Lucy and Ethel’s zany antics. And even though it’s basically what they spent the entire weekend doing, only without baby chatter, it’s nice. Maybe even a little homey.

Somewhere around the ninth episode though, Mon-El gets almost suspiciously quiet, and she looks over to find that he’s fallen fast asleep. She supposes she ought to wake him up and send him on his way so he can get a good night’s rest in the comforts of his own home, but his hair’s still bunched up in odd places, he’s snoring softly, and somehow she just can’t bring herself to do it. So she cuts off the TV and slides the nearest cushion under his head, smiling when she tosses a blanket over him and he snuggles down under it like the giant five-year-old he very often resembles.

She’s about to douse the lights and head off to bed when something about the feel of the whole thing strikes her and she hesitates. She hasn’t changed her mind. She still thinks keeping her distance is the smartest plan—that it’s worked so far. But there’s a little corner of her heart that rises up at inopportune moments and reminds her that she’s maybe not as immune as she’d like to be. Here in the dim glow of her apartment with all kinds of memories flitting through her head, it’s a lot harder to remember the importance of being smart.

Hurriedly, before she has a chance to second-guess the impulse, she kisses her fingertips and touches them to his forehead.

“’Night,” she whispers, crumpling her hand into a fist when it starts tingling.

Then she speeds off to bed, where she falls asleep to the chorus of a song she just can’t seem to escape:

_Que sera, sera_

_Whatever will be, will be_

_The future’s not ours to see_

_Que sera, sera._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title is a reference to the theme from Casablanca sung by Dooley Wilson  
> *The song Iris sings and Kara thinks about is “Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be).” I wrote this with the Doris Day version in mind because that’s basically the only version I acknowledge ;D  
> *Dolly Levi is a character in Thornton Wilder's play "The Matchmaker," which was remade into the musical "Hello, Dolly!" starring Barbra Streisand. Dolly refers to herself as "a woman who arranges things" and basically matchmakes everyone Emma Woodhouse style (but with more success), which is what Barry's kind of trying to do here.  
> *Sorry about the length between updates! I actually started this chapter back in August when I only had like one preceding chapter done, so I had to do a lot of revision on it, and it got so long that I couldn’t include everything I wanted to in it...there was supposed to be a section from Mon-El’s POV after they made it back to their earth, but that part was getting too long and I felt like it was better to put it into a separate chapter. Then after I did that, I had to go back and pull out all the parts in this chapter that were supposed to lead into the main plot of his section, so that took a bit. And I also got tired of being sick and finally went to see the doctor where I found out that my cold had turned into bronchitis. So that’s apparently why my productivity has been even lower than usual, lol. BUT, I’m getting better now so it shouldn’t take me quite as long to get my editing/revision done.  
> *Kara thinks of Barry as “her oldest superhero friend” because Clark is family and I firmly believe that she thinks of J’onn as family more than anything else.  
> *Referring to Dawn Allen as “Dawnie” is probably some manifestation of all my Buffy-watching, but I imagine that if The Flash actually does go so far as to name two siblings “Dawn” and “Don,” they’ll have to come up with a way to differentiate between the two kids in speech, and “Dawnie” sounds cuter to me than “Donny,” which makes me think of Donny Osmond first and Lina Lamont yelling “Ta-ta, Donny! See you there!” in Singin’ In The Rain second, so that was a definite NO.  
> *Ever since my girl became Killer Frost, my siblings and I have joked that she gets to be both Elsa and Anna, and I think little kids would make the same connection. And it seems to me that all the blonde Disney princesses who are kind and sing beautifully would remind those same little kids of Kara, so…I shamelessly went with that. And since so much of the Karamel fandom thinks K&M are very Rapunzel and Flynn *coughcough emarasmoak(emara32)* I felt sort of obligated to include a small reference to K&M being mistaken for those two cuties.  
> *Random note: if we don’t get to see Kara and Mon-El interacting with small children at some point in this series, than really, what’s the point? (Even more random note: the blue bear Mon-El falls asleep on is meant to be a Care Bear. I forget the names of the blue ones, but my friend’s daughter has a whole collection of those things, they sing happy songs, and it’s SUPER obnoxious. I feel like Mon’s not the type to sit politely through that kind of thing, so that’s why I had him extract the batteries.)  
> *The next chapter will hopefully provide some answers as to why Mon-El came back with memory loss. The beginning part of it was originally supposed to go at the end of this chapter though, so there may be a lot of telling rather than showing at first.  
> **Thanks as always for reading/commenting! You guys are awesome, and I’m sorry I keep making you wait so long for everything. Hope your day is going amazing, and that you’re surviving the hiatus more gracefully than I am <3


	7. Don't You Remember (One More Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a weekend on Earth 1, Mon-El juggles complications involving his past, present, and future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Apologies in advance for this chapter. It’s not my favorite because it’s a patchwork effort that required a lot of tweaking (I wrote the last three quarters of it back in August when I first began this story and the beginning was supposed to be the end of last chapter), but it’s necessary to the plot.

When Mon-El’s eyes blink open, the first thing that registers is _light_. It’s all around him, golden and cheerful, covering everything like a fallen cloud, and for a few minutes he just watches the dust specks shimmering through the air and basks in the coziness of it all. Eventually, though, reality soaks in to ruin the peaceful atmosphere: he’s lying on a very small couch in a very familiar apartment, and if he doesn’t hurry, he’s going to be late for that briefing session down at the police department that he promised J’onn last night he’d attend. Lazing has to wait, because right now, duty calls. And speaking of duty…

Yawning, he rolls onto his side and inspects the suspiciously quiet room. The remnants of last night’s meal still litter the coffee table, but where is Kara? She and mornings go together like cereal and milk; even when she’s exhausted she’s not big on sleeping in, and it’s kind of odd that she hasn’t breezed in yet, singing, laughing, and just making a lot of unnecessary noise in general. But then, he realizes upon spotting the half-open window, it’s likely that she just slipped off on some rescue mission. He’s not the lightest sleeper in the universe, and this last weekend, as Winn would say, tuckered him out. He strongly suspects that even if Kara yelled goodbye as she whooshed by him on her way to the window, he wouldn’t stir.   

Still…before he starts tromping around in his usual morning stupor, he needs to make sure she’s not asleep. Judging by the blanket he’s just discovered draped over him, she was nice enough to not roust him last night, and he doesn’t want to repay that favor by robbing her of her rest. Especially since he’s a little afraid he might’ve unintentionally chased her off the couch. He doesn’t remember going to sleep on more than one cushion, but at some point he clearly spread out and took over the whole area.

Sitting up, he takes a few seconds to unfold his cramped legs and stretch, then stands just enough to glimpse the end of the bed. There’s no giant mound of covers anywhere in sight, so he relaxes and decides he may as well transport the empty cartons to the recycling bin. But because both that and the garbage bin are close to overflowing, he goes ahead and just speeds everything down to the dumpsters, the rush of cool air kick-starting his brain into a gear that somewhat resembles functional. By the time he returns to the apartment, he’s actually alert enough to head straight for his phone so he can text Kara and ask if she wants him to keep the window unlocked or not when he leaves.

Grabbing the cell off the coffee table with one hand and his suitcase with the other, he digs out a clean shirt and tosses it over the nearest chair back while he types. Right as his finger hovers above the _send_ icon however, the door to the bathroom creaks open and he looks up startled as a blonde in a too-short towel emerges, her face a vivid and unnatural shade of green. She’s too busy scraping moisture-darkened strands of hair into a knot atop her head to notice him immediately, so Mon-El uses the chance to regain what composure he can as he silently curses his own lack of foresight. Why didn’t it occur to him to check the bathroom? Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

“Uh…” he ends up saying, getting the word out even though it seems to stick in his throat. “Kara?”

“Oh my God!” Eyes widening, she zips toward the bed and snatches up the comforter, throwing it around her shoulders. “How are—I heard the door…what are you doing here?” she sputters, now swaddled by the fluffy fabric. “Didn’t you leave? I swear I heard you leave!”

He winces. “Yeah. I did. Kind of,” he replies, a little amazed at how casual he sounds. “To take out the garbage. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. The room looked empty and I figured you’d already left for work.”

“James left a message early this morning,” she murmurs, and though there’s too much goop on her face to be able to tell what’s going on under there, he’s pretty sure she’s blushing. “The air conditioning at CatCo failed, so no work today. I thought hey, I need to shower anyway and I have this new avocado scrub-mask thingy...why not?”

Mon-El nods, biting the insides of his cheeks when she points a blanket-covered hand at herself. Now that the initial shock of encountering the towel-clad partner he’s supposed to be thinking of as _just_ a partner is over, the funny side of it refuses to be ignored. Kara’s self-conscious tone stands in stark opposition to her lurid appearance, and the divide between the two is about to make him lose it.

“So,” he says, covering a smile as he gestures toward the shiny green substance. “You’re telling me you decided to use your day off to smear guacamole makings all over your face?”

“Ha- _ha,_ very funny.” She props her hands on her hips, the bulk of blanket that surrounds her winging out into a bizarre-shaped cocoon. “For your information, this is an all-natural skin treatment that one of our Health and Fitness columnists asked me to help test since she’s allergic to avocadoes. You want to get technical about it, I’m conducting research on behalf of National City consumers who deserve to know the truth about whether or not they’re wasting their money on a skincare product they could probably make themselves for a lot cheaper from items in the average grocery store.”

“I see.” He nodded again, face solemn. “So…you _don’t_ want a bowl of chips, then?”

Heaving a long, protracted sigh, she tilts her head to one side. Then she blows a loud, deliberate raspberry at him.

“Ah.” He cocks an eyebrow, but a grin straggles out despite his efforts to keep a straight face. “The mature approach. Nice.”

“Oh, shut up,” she returns, scratching a finger down the side of her face and flicking a dribble of the grainy green mess at him before he can dodge. “I’m not dressed for arguing and I haven’t eaten yet. Let me get some food in me, and the zingers’ll be flying all over the place.”

“Right. Well, until then, if you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says, giving her a dramatic fake bow. “Borrowing your toaster and quaking in my ruby slippers.”

“Ooh.” She makes a face at the jab like he expects, but follows it quickly with a wide, cheesy smile. “Bagels?”

He tries to roll his eyes but ends up laughing at her insta-enthusiasm. “Sure. How many you want?”

“Just five,” she answers, the blanket fluttering comically behind her as she steps up onto and crosses over the bed to get at her closet. “I’ll probably snack most of the day, and I don’t want to deplete my _entire_ stock of breakfast foods in one meal.”

“Gotcha. Cream cheese?” he queries, laughing again when she sends him a _do you have to ask?_ look. “Right, right. Stupid question, I know.  Okay, so, five bagels coming right up. Do you care what flavor, or…?”

“Surprise me,” she says cheerily as he turns to head into the kitchen. “But oh! Not with the levels of toastiness. Make sure it’s on the fifth setting and not the fourth or sixth. Four—”

“—barely gives it a tan, and six just burns it to a crisp,” he finishes for her, grinning because she never seems aware of how often she mentions her food preferences. “Yep, got it. No worries.”

“Okay,” she calls from the other room, her voice slightly muffled. “But I’m warning you, buster. If I taste burnt bread, I am _so_ sending the flying monkeys after you.”

“Then I’ll be sure to have an emergency glass of water handy.”

She answers with a shrill, deranged cackle that makes him snort, and he shakes his head as he rummages around in the refrigerator for the bag of bagels. He doesn’t think it’ll take her long to change, but nonetheless, he resolutely keeps his back toward the bedroom while he pops a couple sets of blueberry-studded rounds into the toaster. As fun as the last few days have been, he knows that he’s skating on thin ice with all this chummy, let’s-hang-out business. Kara’s more than clarified her sentiments on the notion of the two of them becoming anything more than a team of friends, and he’s agreed to abide by those terms. At this point, what he _feels_ has no place in anything. It’s a case of mind over matter, and if he keeps allowing himself to blur the border between their past and present relationship, the only thing he’s going to achieve is a renewed longing for what might’ve been and a tense, politely horrible state of affairs with the most important person in his life.

Which would suck. Hugely.

Tapping a finger against the counter, he breathes a sigh of relief that she chose today to try out that green stuff. If he’d stumbled in on her in just that towel…

_No._

He shuts his eyes tightly, searching for something—anything—besides a profusion of off-limit memories to fill his mind while he waits for breakfast to pop up. He is _not_ going to go there. Not again. Not after he made it through three days in the same house with her without cracking once (although he very nearly did when he came in with the giant Big Belly Burger order and caught the tail end of her one-woman production of _Singin’ In The Rain_ ).

But as usual, his brain cooperates apathetically. Instead of responding with something helpful, like the list of things he needs to do this week, a catchy, lyric-less tune ( _dun-uh, dun-uh, duh-duh-duh-duh_ ) infiltrates his consciousness until he’s so annoyed with his new mental playlist that he resorts to grabbing his suitcase from its spot by the door and sorting the food-stained clothes from the non-food-stained clothes.

“Question,” he says casually when Kara enters a few minutes later, now in exercise pants and a sweatshirt but still wearing the mask. “Do you know any tricks for getting song snippets out of your head?”

“What? Why? Why would you need to do that?”

He frowns, the forcefulness of her response making him wonder if he’s missing something. “No special reason. I just have what I think is like half a chorus playing through my mind, and I’d kind of love to make it stop.”

“Oh. Um…no. Sorry, can’t help you there. Just try not to think about it, I guess.” She props a hip against the counter, scooping up a bagel half and quickly crunching into it. “Hey, blueberry! Great choice.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Mon-El says it casually, but his eyes narrow as he heads back over to collect the second round of carbs from the toaster. She’s got that look again—the twitchy, fake-jokey demeanor that pretty much trumpets the fact that she’s hiding something—but he’s hesitant to call her on it because it might be related to the whole towel incident.

Which he is _not_ going to dwell on.

At all.

Even if the mental image is still firmly lodged in his brain like it really shouldn’t be.

“Hey, uh—listen,” he says, scarfing down his portion of the meal as fast as he can. Forget changing or showering; he can do all that down at the DEO, and the longer he stays here, the more danger he’s in. “I’m sorry to eat and run, but I’ve really got to get down to the DEO to get my instructions before I head on over to the precinct. Catch you later?”

“Yeah, definitely.” She kicks his ankle gently, green cheeks puffed out in a food-filled smile. “Might wanna put your shoes on if you’re planning on walking, though.”

“Huh?” He follows her gaze down to his feet and groans when he realizes he’s still in his socks. “Oh, that’s lovely. No wonder that street vendor looked at me so weird.”

“Street vendor?” Kara repeats. “When did you see a street vendor? And was it the hot dog guy or the waffle chef?”

“Neither. The trash was kind of full so I took it out,” he explains, hiking up a foot to see if he can pick off some of the leaf fragments and other assorted debris lodged in the intricate grooves of the weave. “I wasn’t quite awake, and this guy pushing a pretzel cart kept staring at me. At the time I figured he was just being rude, but now I guess I know why.”

“Pretzel cart?” she says, looking interested. “There’s one of those in this area now?”

Mon-El chuckles. “Yeah. I wouldn’t recommend hunting him down, though. They seemed pretty stale. Like are-those-real-or-are-they-plastic stale.”

“Rats. Ah, well. We can’t have everything.” Straightening up, she gives him a light punch on the shoulder that’s accompanied by a huge smile. “Before I forget, thanks for going on trash duty. And for making breakfast. And for, you know, cooking all weekend. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for supplying breakfast and letting me crash on your couch,” he says, grinning at her over his shoulder as he speeds over to his suitcase to grab a tidier pair of socks. “Hope the snoring didn’t keep you up.”

Her laugh ripples through the room, the rollicking little sound widening his smile. “What, are you kidding me? I used to _sleep_ right next to y—um. I mean…”

He forces the edges of his smile to stay in place, but inside, he shrivels a little. Yes, he knows what she means. Just like he also knows he needs to pretend he didn’t notice that minor fumble by camouflaging his response in jokes the same way he did in the bedroom.

“Hey, Alex has told me all about that year in high school when you took shop and failed because you kept nodding off during it,” he inserts easily. “No need to come at me with the buzzsaw humor, I get it.”

She wilts. Visibly, and probably with relief.

“No, of course not,” she says, her movements suddenly awkward as she shoves another bite of bagel into her mouth, “I just meant you should’ve heard you on Saturday night. It was like a whole army of…motorcycles. Or angry racecars. I’m surprised you didn’t wake up yourself.”

“What can I say?” He shrugs, arms held out in faux carelessness. “I’ve got a gift.”

For a long interval that he both wants and doesn’t want to end, she stares at him. Apology creases her brow, and he hates it—in part because he doesn’t like seeing her remorseful, but mostly because that remorse is just so pointless. Regret isn’t like a balm. Applying it afterward doesn’t ease pain, and neither does standing around exchanging silent if-onlys. In Mon-El’s experience, the lone cure for a broken past lies in moving forward, because even if the pieces can’t be put back quite how they were, at least the possibility of rebuilding something good exists. He just wishes Kara saw things the same way—wishes life wouldn’t insist on throwing so damn many knockout punches at her that she feels the need to gather up control anywhere she can to protect herself.

But the fact of the matter is that she _doesn’t_ see it at all, so instead he sits around biting his tongue to keep from blurting out that there’s no need to feel guilty over bringing up the past. If he were free to, he’d bring it up every chance he gets—tell her in no uncertain terms that he remembers exactly how it felt to sleep next to the sweetest and biggest blanket hog in the universe. That he remembers how she would alternate between singing snatches of the most annoyingly catchy pop songs he’d ever heard and fighting villains in her sleep. That he remembers all the times she cried in the wee hours without knowing it and stopped the instant he pulled her close because the only being on the entire Earth that she can’t make feel loved and protected is herself and for some reason, a simple hug is enough to accomplish that for her.

Most importantly though, he’d tell her that he remembers the first time she told him she loved him. That it still hurts to think of her tears and how she kept apologizing for not telling him sooner like he cared about that—like he cared about anything at that moment other than her and the knowledge that he was leaving and taking with him the only tangible memory she had left of her mother.

As though it senses his thoughts, the little pendant seems to grow heavy around his neck, and Mon-El shifts uneasily. “So, um—I should get going. Wish me luck on the negotiations?”

“Definitely,” Kara says, her soft voice opposing her zany appearance. “Luck.”

He sends her a big smile that he maybe means. Then, swiftly, he puts on his shoes, gathers up his suitcase, and takes off in a burst of speed that ends up scattering half his belongings down the hall because he forgot to properly close the thing. No one witnesses the accident though, so he’s able to replace everything in a relatively short time and set off briskly for the DEO. (Where, to his disgust, he spends the better part of the morning explaining to Alex and Winn that the _only_ reason his clothes look like he slept in them is because he _did,_ and that there’s nothing significant about his spending the night on Kara’s couch.) The rest of the day is filled with paperwork, polite arguing with cops who aren’t inclined to trust the results of a machine that operates using technology they don’t fully understand, and the constant battle of banishing that repetitive riff from his head.

_Dun-uh, dun-uh, duh-duh-duh-duh._

_Dun-uh, dun-uh, duh-duh-duh-duh._

It’s like the tune is determined to drive him crazy, and the longer it lingers, the more certain he becomes that he’s missing something— a vitally important something connected to the nameless beat that should be obvious. But by the end of the week, when he’s no closer to putting words to it and is on the brink of forcing the song from his mind, a new frustration arrives to distract him: the numbers.

Wherever he goes for the next few weeks, the numbers are there. Stenciled on buses and bus ads, spray-painted in alleyways, carved into the wood of his favorite table at his favorite restaurant, written in the cement on the sidewalk outside the DEO, posted on the one billboard he can see from his fifth story apartment building, etched into the wood of one of the cabinets behind the bar, and even stuck to the cart of the pretzel vendor (who Kara and Winn refuse to believe exists because every time they go looking for him he’s apparently nowhere to be found). All over the city, the exact same seven-digit combination surfaces. Sometimes it’s a phone number, sometimes it’s a license plate, sometimes (like on the billboard) it’s the number on a fake credit card. Sometimes they’re bright, sometimes they’re faint, but always, always they’re where he’s sure to spot them, and Mon-El just can’t convince himself that it’s a coincidence anymore. And after he finds the numbers written on a violet-colored sticky note that’s attached to an empty glass at the bar, he’s positive of it. He doesn’t recall seeing anyone sitting in that booth, and he definitely didn’t serve anyone what’s clearly a rum and coke without the rum. Whatever’s going on here, he—and very possibly _only_ he since no one else seems to pay it any mind—is meant to notice it.

Which means…what?

During this week’s walk to Kara’s place for game night, he mulls it over. Why he can’t seem to make head or tails of a mystery that feels so familiar, he isn’t sure. But when Alex opens the door and greets him with a _You look awful, what’s eating you?_ he still hesitates to bring up the subject. He wants to, of course—the more brainpower concentrated on solving this weird little riddle, the sooner it and his frustration will probably end—yet the desire to be done with it can’t quite make him ignore the feeling that he needs to gloss over the story. As much as he wants to unload all the details, his instincts whisper that giving into the impulse is easy, but wrong. And not wrong as in _ethically_. Wrong like a good gambit at a bad moment.

So when James tosses him a beer from halfway across the room, he laughs at Winn’s dramatic backbend out of the way along with everyone else and tells Alex that it’s no big deal, just work stuff. Because technically, it is. It’s all occurred in and around his work locale, and anyway, whatever’s going on, it doesn’t need to be dragged into the one time of week they all make a conscious effort to not delve into job-related stress.

But after he bungles three easy picture-drawing rounds of Cranium and basically puts Kara and himself in last place behind the teams of J’onn and Alex, Winn and James, it’s a little harder to convince everyone that his mind is fully on what he’s doing. Even J’onn is looking at him with undisguised skepticism, so he unbends just a hair and explains what’s currently bugging him: the note.

“Ooh,” Winn comments when the story’s done, tossing the colorful little board back into the box in blatant disregard of Alex’s instructions on the right way to replace everything. “ _Mysterious._ You haven’t noticed any shadowy figures in dark cloaks following you about lately, have you?”

James snorts. “Mysterious shadowy figures who leave messages on purple post-it notes?”

“What?” Winn shrugs. “It could happen. Say, there aren’t like nine of them or anything, are there? On dark horses? Creeping around in dark alleys near jewelry stores and asking about us kinda-vertically-challenged folks?”

“No, Winn, it’s definitely not Ring Wraiths.” Of that at least, Mon-El is sure. “Besides, I suspect they’d choose gray or black sticky notes.”

“More _importantly_ ,” Alex cuts in, aiming a stern look in Winn’s direction, “what does this secret message say?”

“Yes, do you still have it with you?” J’onn inquires. “It could very well be a hoax of some sort, but there’s no harm in examining it for clues.”

“Yeah, I’ve got it here.” Mon-El reaches into his pocket—a pointless move, he thinks, since he now knows the sequence by heart. But he’s still reluctant to blurt out all the information, so he pretends to re-read the thing anyway. “It’s just a bunch of numbers. Does eight million, six hundred seventy-five thousand, three hundred and nine mean anything to anyone?”

“Eight million what now?” Kara says, craning her neck beside him. “Here, let me see.”

Mon-El lowers his arm so she can get a look, his puzzlement only deepening when she collapses against him and bursts into a hearty laugh.

“So,” he says as she plucks the little square from his fingers and passes it to Winn, who’s already demanding to see it. “I’m guessing the answer is _yes?_ ”

“Ha! I’ll say,” Winn chortles, waving the note in the air as Alex and James lean over his shoulder to see what the joke is. “I think someone wants you to give Jenny a call ASAP, dude.”

Mon-El stills, a weird chill blowing over him. “What?”

Chuckling as he heads into the kitchen, J’onn claps him on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Mon-El. Some music-loving jokester is just having a little fun at your—and probably countless others’—expense.”

“How so?” he queries, trying to smile while something in his head screams at him that he _knows_ this, he does, he just needs to _figure it out!_

“Eight six seven five three oh nine, man,” James says, his hands outstretched. “It’s kind of a specific-to-this-planet prank that, now that I think of it, probably should have died out a long time ago.”

“No, it should _definitely_ have died out a long time ago,” Alex corrects. “My God, who is this monster? Someone really needs to have a chat with them. Let them know the eighties are gone. _Over._ Never to return.”

“Okay?” Mon-El says, more confused than ever.

“It’s from a song,” Kara explains, patting him on the arm. “Eight six seven five three oh nine is Jenny’s phone number. I can’t believe you don’t know this!”

She starts singing loudly and Winn joins in immediately. Alex and James chime along with accompanying guitar sounds ( _dun-uh, dun-uh, duh-duh-duh-duh_ ) while J’onn shakes his head and laughs, but Mon-El stays still.

That tune. The numbers.

_Someone wants you to call Jenny ASAP, dude._

_Mon-El, there’s a comms unit that will only recognize your voice attached to your ring. If anything goes wrong, someone will let you know who it’s safe to contact and which security code activates the device._

Like a watercolor painting blooming slowly to life, comprehension finally soaks into his brain. Not Jenny— _Jenni._ Someone wants him to call _Jenni,_ as in Jenni Ognats, as in the Legion member who fist-bumped him right before he climbed into a broken-down Kryptonian pod with a plan to return to the planet and century he’d left, as in the person who swore she’d remind him to contact the Legion in the dumbest way possible if there were ever a need.

“Holy Rao,” he mutters.

“You okay?” Kara says, breaking the song off mid-verse, and Mon-El reins in his moment of epiphany as he takes a look around and realizes that they’re all watching him curiously.

“Yes! Fine,” he answers quickly, sticking on a big smile. “I just remembered I _completely_ forgot to take care of something, and I need to run back by my apartment. You guys just…go ahead and start Monopoly without me. I shouldn’t be too long.”

“Okay, but nobody’s saving Boardwalk for you,” Winn calls as he heads to the door at the fastest pace he can manage without arousing suspicion. “ _Or_ Park Place. Know that, O Purveyor of Expensive-ass Properties. You snooze, you lose.”

Mon-El laughs in spite of the wild jungle that’s his brain right now. “Fair enough. I guess I’ll just have to defeat you with Baltic and Mediterranean, then.”

“Hey, you’re not by any chance blasting off to call Jenny, are you?” James asks, laughing out the question above Winn’s indignant expostulations.

“Nope,” Mon-El responds with as much lightness as he can muster. Technically speaking, he’s not going to _call_ Jenni—he’s going to activate the two-way communications device in his suit so that he can call a ship that’s traveling who-knows-when in time at an unknown location, but none of that needs to be divulged just now. “Not exactly. BRB, kids and J’onn.” 

He makes his exit before anyone can voice any more questions, the happy din fading behind him as he soars through the sky. There’s a sense of urgency about the memories barraging him now, and the sudden shift in everything isn’t lost on him. He was sent back to help Kara. He knows this. His mind was wiped to prevent any unwanted information spillage. He knows this also. What he doesn’t know is why he’s now supposed to make contact, because he was supposed to make contact only in case of emergency and _emergency_ means something is not going according to plan, so what the hell is the plan beyond helping Kara (which is what he’s doing), and why can’t he remember it? The question haunts him, and he doesn’t stop or even slow until he reaches his apartment. There, heart pounding, he unlocks the door and rushes in.

Where he discovers four visitors in his living room: a bored-looking Coluan (Brainiac 5, his memory informs him), a poker-faced telepath (Imra Ardeen), a fidgeting speedster (Jenni Ognats), and a seemingly-annoyed Talokian (Tasmia Mallor). _All_ of whom look ridiculous in their obvious attempts to create working Earthen disguises that resemble nothing so much as caricatures. Brainy’s clearly been outfitted as the internet’s idea of a computer nerd, complete with glasses and pocket protector. Imra looks like a music festival attendee in braids, eye-jewels, choker, and too much denim. Tas has blue-streaks in her hair, numerous fake—or possibly real—tattoos everywhere, and is wearing more black leather than the average motorcycle gang. And all Jenni, her sneakers, her leggings, her backpack, and her baggy sweatshirt lack is a sign announcing _I AM A COLLEGE FRESHMAN._

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

“No need,” Imra says calmly as he slams the door shut to prevent any passing neighbor from catching a glimpse inside. “A shield’s already been cast.”

“You’re welcome,” Tas deadpans from her perch on the sofa arm. “Also, you should know that the decrepit human who supposedly guards the entrance downstairs noticed nothing amiss. I’d have him replaced if I were you.”

“And the security measures you installed are very nearly as appalling,” Brainy chimes in. “If you’re going to rely on constructs as primitive as a lock and key to protect your living quarters, I’d recommend you place at _least_ four cameras in the outer corridor alone.”

“Yeah.” Jenni bobs her head up and down in vehement agreement. “I checked the feeds in the breakroom just in case, and there’re only two working cameras in this entire building.”

“Yes, we broke in,” Imra supplies as Mon-El folds his arms preparatory to speaking. “But only out of necessity. We couldn’t very well stand on your doorstep and wait until you made up your mind to return, could we?”

“No, I guess not.” Surprised at how strong his voice sounds in the midst of his shock, Mon-El takes a deep breath. “Okay. As lovely as it is to see and remember everyone again, I seem to also recall the need for secrecy and contact _only_ in case of emergency being ground into my consciousness, so…what are you all doing here?”

“In macro terms?” Brainy says blandly from the depths of the armchair. “Attempting to protect a timeline. In more focused, present terms—some of us were awaiting your return to this spot after the rebooting of your memories while others of us were perhaps making a little too free with your singularly unappetizing rations.”

“What?” Mon-El’s brow furrows.

“He means Jenni stole your food and we’ve been waiting for you to get a clue,” Tas declaims, inspecting a black fingernail with what’s either interest or disgust.

“I swear, Mon-El, I just borrowed a couple protein shakes,” Jenni says apologetically. “Well, not _borrowed,_ but you get what I mean. I got hungry and they wouldn’t let me run by a restaurant. Also, while we’re on the subject of supercharged shakes, do you care if I drink like six more? I’ll only take the vanilla and strawberry ones, I promise. I had to take care of a couple Earth One things and I’m kind of starting to feel it.”

Mon-El waves the okay, gritting his teeth when she speeds by so close that the wind knocks his keys out of his hand. “Right. Waiting for me, eating my food. Cool. Got it. But is there any particular _reason_ you’re all doing the exact thing we agreed you weren’t to do under any circumstances whatsoever? Especially considering I was on my way here to contact you guys?”

“Yes,” a voice says as the door bursts open behind him. “You’re creating a gigantic problem and we’re getting really tired of repairing the future damages. How about you give it a rest?”

Mon-El swings around as the newest visitor—this one wearing a dark cloth apron with the words _Totally Twisted_ emblazoned on it in bright gold lettering—enters.  “Really?” he says, sighing as he finally understands why only he ever laid eyes on this one street vendor. “Pretzels?”

Garth shrugs, tossing the apron and a dark wig at him as he strolls over to join the others. “I suggested lurking electrician, but it was heavily implied that that might be a bit too on-the-nose.”

“That, and you totally thought you could use it as an excuse to peek in windows for clues, which is pretty much considered creeper behavior in every time and on every world ever,” Jenni says from the counter, where she’s now sitting.

“It would not have been a good joke,” Imra says authoritatively as Garth’s mouth opens. “It could have frightened Mon-El, Kara, or any number of humans into a reaction containing unforeseen consequences and then we would have had to perform damage control that might jeopardize identities or other timelines. Which if you’ll recall, is _precisely_ why we chose not to pursue that course of action.”

“What, you mean like _we_ chose to pursue this one?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be guarding the ship?” Brainy inserts.

“No, according to those who assured me they weren’t trying to ditch me, I was _supposed_ to be monitoring the comms in case Mon-El called in earlier than expected,” Garth returns, shrugging. “Now that you’re all here chitchatting, what’s the point?”

“The point is that you ignored an order put in place for safety purposes,” Imra says, voice sharpening. “You could’ve been spotted.”

He shoots her a lopsided grin. “I wasn’t, though. I was careful, and I even wore my pretzel-man getup just for you.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re here when you ought to be there,” Brainy comments.

“All _right_ ,” Mon-El interrupts before the argument can gain traction and take them further off the path. “I’m thrilled that nothing about the family dynamic seems to have changed while I was gone, but can someone tell me why here and now is suddenly the appropriate time for a reunion? And why I’m remembering everything I spent the last five years _not_ remembering?”

“Well you see, due to the complex nature of free will in sentient beings, every decision carries with it a certain multifaceted, near-infinite realm of logical possibilities that tend to—”

Mon-El stifles a sigh. “Succinctly, please, Brainy. I’m kind of on a time crunch.”

“Mon-El, shut up,” Imra interjects. “ _Please_ ,” she adds as if in afterthought, casting an irritated glance toward Garth, who smiles back, nothing daunted. “This is important, and you need to hear it.”

“All right,” Mon-El says, clasping his hands together behind his back. “But please try to make it quick. If I’m gone much longer, someone’ll come looking for me.”

“Yes, she probably will.”

He tenses. There’s almost zero inflection in Imra’s tone, but her drift is unmistakable, and he sends her a stern look. If this has anything to do with what he’s starting to think it does...

“Before you speak,” she says as his jaw loosens, “don’t. We’re not here to discuss your deep aversion to having your romantic entanglements dragged out into the open and publicly inspected.”

“Yeah, we’re just here to drag and inspect them,” Garth drawls, earning himself another icy stare from the sofa. “Oh, come on. You know it’s true.”

The tension spreads to the muscles in the back of Mon-El’s neck. “I see. And everyone agreed to this?”

“In essence,” Tas says, exchanging glances with first Brainy, then Jenni. “Most of us considered an intervention of this sort risky and unpleasant, but also necessary.”

Brainy nods. “There were some…shall we say, non-visionaries amongst us who gave dissenting opinions, but we adhered to majority rule. Which was four to one.”

“For the record, I didn’t dissent to the intervention,” Garth remarks, crossing his arms as he slouches against the windowsill. “I just said hell no to the idea of sending a lot of borderline-insensitive delegates to handle a delicate and highly personal situation.”

“Noted.” Scanning the faces before him for any sign of levity, Mon-El sighs. “For what I sincerely hope is the last time…can anyone elaborate?”

“If you’ll have the goodness to stop encouraging and providing interruptions, I’ll explain,” Imra says.

“I’m not—” he begins.

“You are.” She stares him down unflinchingly, and resentment explodes inside of him as he feels his mouth start closing in obedience to a will that’s not his own. “And it’s wasting time, which you clearly consider of paramount importance, so I suggest you try not speaking for a bit.”

“Imra,” Garth says, and Mon-El does his best to not roll his eyes at the way the guy’s entire demeanor softens over the name. “He’s not going to want to listen if you make him.”

_That’s right_ , Mon-El thinks pointedly, raising an eyebrow at the blonde who still hasn’t relaxed her death grip on his jaw. _And more than one can play the “romantic entanglements” card, so think very carefully before you speak. I got back a lot of shipboard memories I don’t mind sharing._

Almost instantly, the psychic noose tightens around his thoughts. _I don’t know what you mean._

Oh, that’s a good one. With great concentrated effort, Mon-El cuts his eyes over to her left where Garth is now fiddling with the lampshade, his gaze still glued to her. _Actually, I think you do. Wanna try me?_

Her scowl deepens, but a flush that tells him he’s scored a hit creeps over her face.

“Very well,” she says, releasing him at length. _You breathe ONE word along those lines, and I assure you, you won’t sleep a wink tonight_. “Mon-El, the facts are these: we returned you to this era in order to prevent the destruction of several vitally important timelines. We assumed your presence would stabilize those timelines and eventually lay the groundwork for others yet to come, and we promised to leave the details to you.”

“But?” Mon-El questions, trying not to take offense at the dispassionate accusation in her tone.

“But you’ve allowed your personal feelings to foul up the basis for a future that _must_ happen,” she returns, ignoring the protestations Garth and Jenni murmur under their breath. “Your relationship with Kara Zor-El is a cornerstone of the Legion in future years. It results in the aversion of many large-scale disasters, prevents countless deaths, and re-writes several bleak histories. The path you’re currently on eliminates not just the potential for her lending her assistance to the cause, but all chances of you rejoining us as well. And at this juncture, the universe cannot stand either one of those outcomes, let alone both of them.”

It’s not funny, not in the least, but the absurdity is almost too much.

“Let me get this straight,” he says slowly. “You’re telling me you broke every rule we set in place when I left just to come here and play superhero matchmaker?”

“Yes,” says Brainy. “For the sake of the universe.”

“The universe. Right. Of course.” Pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, Mon-El sighs loudly. “And how exactly do you suggest I go about announcing to Kara that we have to once again become more than friends because the future fate of the universe may depend on it?”

“Simple,” Brainy answers with all the confidence of a party located outside the actual problem. “Tell her you still experience intense arrhythmiatic symptoms and abnormally high hormonal urges every time you’re in her presence, and proceed from there.”

“ _Grife,”_ Jenni gasps, clutching the plastic bottle she’s just drained to her chest. “Definitely don’t do that! She’ll never—oh, sorry.” She grimaces at Imra. “I’m going to shut up now.”

“Never what?” Mon-El asks suspiciously. “Never join the Legion? Is that what this is really all about? The _universe_ doesn’t depend on it, but Kara’s skills make something easier in the future so you’re here to make sure she eventually joins up?”

“The specifics aren’t important at the moment,” Imra replies, far too smoothly to be convincing. “Just inform her of your feelings so we can all get back to business.”

Yes, because _that’s_ all he needs to do. Re-bring up what she’s already requested they leave buried.

“She knows I love her,” he says, not even caring how flat he sounds.

“Does she?” Garth comments, sending a sideways glance toward the couch that’s purposefully ignored.

 “She does.” Mon-El knows he’s turning red, but this isn’t one of those conversations he can flee—that is, he _can,_ but probably not successfully considering the skillsets of the room’s other occupants—so he grits his teeth and resolves to just get through it as swiftly as possible. “I uh, didn’t leave a whole of room for doubt a few years ago. And neither did she.”

“So…” Hands forming a triangle, Brainy presses the tips of his fingers to his chin. “Allow me to recap; I want to see if I’m understanding this correctly. You announced and-or acted on your feelings several years ago and received a clear-cut _NO_ for your pains. You then ceaselessly continued to profess your regard in unambiguous, unmistakable fashion, and are still receiving such a negative response to your every attempt at wooing that you believe any and all hope for change is futile?”

“Well…not _exactly_ ,” Mon-El admits, reluctant to provide even that tidbit to an audience this dogged. “It was a no for reasons that are important to her. I haven’t said anything else since then because it would only make her uncomfortable.”

“Ah.” Brainy nods, head cocking to the side. “Interesting.”

 “And you know all this…how?” Tas inquires, kicking off her boots and tapping a finger against her chin. “Direct or secondary communication? Explicit verbal confirmation, or assumption based on observation?”

Mon-El folds his arms, head aching already. “It’s not about whether or not I know beyond all shadow of a—”

“Observation only?” Imra’s eyebrows lift. “That settles it, then. I’ll remotely investigate her thoughts and find out where she stands on this.”

“No, you absolutely will not!” Mon-El snaps, because of all the things he can’t let happen, that probably tops the list. “What Kara does or doesn’t feel is her own business. The entire galaxy being in danger doesn’t justify invading her privacy. _Or_ telling her which choices she ‘needs’ to make for the greater good.”

“You’re overreacting,” Tas intones. “Telling her the stakes isn’t the same as forcing a choice on her. Besides, you’re presuming she’s not already in favor of the idea and just keeping quiet about it. Maybe she’s waiting to see if you’ll broach the topic again.”

Oh, if only. Drawing a deep breath, Mon-El firmly repels the glimmer of hope that tries to take hold of him at the suggestion.

“Yes,” he says as evenly as he can, “it’s possible a miracle might have occurred and she might have changed her mind. But that’s not the point.”

Jenni plops her chin into her hand, face squeezed into a frown. “What _is_ the point?”

“The point is that even if Kara still hates the idea, she’ll do it the second someone mentions the universe hanging in the balance!” He doesn’t get why this is so hard for them to understand. If they’re trying to preserve a future where Kara joins the Legion, shouldn’t they know this about her? “That’s just who she is; she’ll save the world at all costs to herself, and it’s not fair to keep asking it of her.”

“So you’d rather sacrifice—” Imra glances at Brainy “Eight point two nine seven billion innocent lives to protect one hero’s freedom of choice?”

_Rao._

Mon-El’s jaw tightens as the weight of the words sink in. “Even if it does save that many, it doesn’t make it right.”

“Personal desires are a luxury for superheroes, Mon-El,” Imra says crisply. “As is choice when the world’s at stake. The surest way of protecting the future lies in you and Kara renewing your relationship, and if you won’t tell her you still love her with every atom in your being, one of us will have to.”

“NO,” Mon-El insists again. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to know for sure how she feels, but I am _not_ doing this to her, and I’m definitely not going to stand by and watch any of you do it to her, either. It’s. Not. _Right._ ”

“If it’s any comfort, no one wants to deprive Kara of her right to choose,” Imra says. “But apprising her of the danger must be done. We’ve thoroughly researched all other avenues, and this is the best way.”

“Wait, the _best_ way?” Mon-El latches onto that, breath quickening. “So telling her everything isn’t the only option, then?”

“Of course not,” Brainy returns, sounding annoyed. “There are over nine hundred and thirty-seven thousand potential alternatives, but this is the only one with an estimated success rate of ninety-nine point two-three percent.”

“Uh-huh, great.” He thinks fast, trying to come up with anything they might accept instead. “Okay, alternative proposition: how about we give it some time and see how it all plays out? Maybe something will happen down the road to change the outcome you’re trying to avoid. A year from now, the future could look entirely different.”

“Yes, we thought of that, and there is…” Brainy squints into the air, calculating. “A nine point two-two-two-seven percent chance that scenario occurs.”

Mon-El ignores him. “Give it—I don’t know. Two years, guys. That’s all I’m asking. Leave Kara out of the doomsday plan for just two more years and see if it can’t be averted without her.”

“Correction: five point eight three seven two percent. And if you take into consideration the likelihood of Supergirl herself changing her mind once she’s embraced a specific routine, three point—”

“Brainy,” Garth interrupts sounding almost weary. “Cut it out, will you? We can all guesstimate the probable success and failure rates.”

Imra leans forward, her eyes narrowing to laser-like focus. “Supposing we did agree to risk a non-interference policy for an extra two years,” she says. “We abide by it, but ultimately, we end up in the same situation we’re in now. Then what?”

Then he’s done for, and it’ll be up to him to make it right.

Affecting a casual air, Mon-El manages a smile. “Then you’ll have my word that I’ll rejoin the Legion at whatever point my presence and participation are needed. Whether or not Kara joins.”

An uneasy, heavy sort of silence falls over the room before Brainy clears his throat. “I don’t wish to be the crusher of optimism and team morale, but won’t you returning alone defeat the entire purpose of this mission? Won’t rejoining the Legion _without_ Supergirl make these last five to seven years you’ve spent on Earth an utter waste of time?”

“No,” Mon-El answers automatically, his mind wandering to comet-blue eyes, soft-lipped smiles, and noisy laughter. Four words, locked far away in the back of his memory surface again, and he feels their truth now as strongly as he felt the pain in his heart and lungs when he first said them: _It was worth it._ “It won’t.”

From her spot on the couch, Imra gazes piercingly at him. “You’re a sentimental fool, Mon-El of Daxam,” she says, but though her tone’s impassive as ever, there’s sympathy there too. “I assume you know that.”

“I know.” Having Imra play invisible go-between could answer the question of whether or not there’s hope once and for all, and a weak part of him desperately wants to cave and okay it. But it feels too much like spying, and besides—if there’s anything he’s learned from life, it’s that sometimes it really is best to not know the ending. “But I think I can live with that.”

She nods, her eyes flicking suddenly toward the door. “Brainy?”

“Right on schedule,” the Coluan answers, pointing to the watch-like band around his wrist as he stands. “Assuming no one tampered with the homing mechanisms and-or got bored and fried the circuitry—”

“That was one time, and it was because the lock to the bathroom kept sticking and I was trying to fix it,” Garth interrupts, rolling his eyes. “Not because I was bored.”

 “—we should be able to transport ourselves there in roughly three-point-three-one seconds,” Brainy continues, ignoring him. “Everyone—not you, Mon-El, we’ll be in touch later—execute like we rehearsed. Ranzz, if you short out my device again, you’re not getting another.”

Mon-El frowns, glancing around the room in confusion as sleeves get hiked up to reveal four more wristbands, each one identical to Brainy’s. “You guys rehearsed this?”

“Yes,” Imra answers as first Brainy, then Tas vanish with a rapidity so alarming that it jolts Mon-El’s memory to life once again and he remembers a time when Brainy was obsessed with creating a faster, safer teleportation device. “Now exercise caution, activate the comms we sent you here with, and stay alert for warnings or instructions. We’ll keep our distance as promised, but I’ll not apologize for interfering should an emergency that threatens too much of the future arise.”

“I _am_ pushing the left knob,” Garth says in an irritated voice, the apparent non-sequitur throwing Mon-El for a loop until he realizes he’s not the one being addressed. “It’s not work—oh.”

“Yes,” says Imra without missing a beat.

Sighing loudly, Garth jabs at the wristband. “When did he even have the time to add upper knobs with all that research you two were doing?”

Imra spears him with yet another look, this one complete with displeased brow-arching.

“Right. Need to know, and I don’t need.” Lifting his chin, Garth offers a mocking salute in Mon-El’s direction. “Well, best of luck, old timer. Sorry all I was allowed to do was spy on you.”

“Thanks. And it’s fine.” Mon-El nods goodbye as he disappears, then waves Jenni away from the trash cleanup. “I’ll get it. No worries.”

“Oh, uh…thank you.”

She glances toward Imra, and Mon-El frowns as a look passes between the two remaining Legionnaires. The way they all seem to be talking over his head is really starting to unsettle him, because he dimly recalls a shipboard instance where they did the same thing, and he ended up locked in his chamber only to find out later that Kara’s cousin, who wasn’t supposed to know him yet, had shown up unexpectedly and been sent back to his time with an honorary ring.

“What’s going on?” he asks, wondering suddenly if this is how J’onn feels the majority of the time. Except J’onn has the advantage of mind-reading, so maybe that’s not the best comparison.

“Nothing,” Jenni says quickly. _Too_ quickly.

Folding his arms, Mon-El aims a skeptical look at her. Surely, he thinks, she doesn’t expect him to buy this. “Nothing?”

“She means nothing you’d be interested in,” Imra supplies, resting a hand on the speedster’s arm, though whether it’s in solidarity or warning, Mon-El isn’t sure. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about knowledge reconnaissance?”

He sighs. “I think you already know the answer to that one.”

The blonde shrugs. “Then she’s correct: nothing.”

“Also, sorry if I got a little obscure with the coded messages,” Jenni adds. “I for sure thought you’d be faster at figuring things out. Not that I think you’re slow on the uptake or anything, just…” She grimaces. “You do kinda overlook what’s right in front of you sometimes, and while it’s good to not be too nosy or impatient, sometimes people can wait longer than they should before taking action; I mean if you want an example, just look at—”

 “Time to go,” Imra interrupts, punching the side of Jenni’s wrist, and the younger girl disappears before she can protest or finish her sentence.

Mon-El rubs a hand across his forehead. “Is it really time to go, or are you just trying to avoid—”

“You can silence those thoughts right this instant,” she says icily, though her neck and cheeks flush bright pink. “The issue at hand is _your_ love life, and I’ll thank you to stick to it.”

He exhales, giving her a wry smile. “So it’s perfectly fine for you and a committee to meddle in my romantic tribulations, but I’m not allowed to even mention yours?”

“Life’s hardly fair,” she returns. “Despite your earlier rants, I assumed you knew that by now.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilts his head, studying her impressively-blank expression for any sign of cracking. “Why are you stalling?”

A knock sounds at the door, followed by a barely perceptible _Mon-El?_

Imra folds her arms. _Is that enough of an answer, or do you need a more obvious hint?_ her voice asks sarcastically in his head. Then she’s gone, too, taking Garth’s discarded disguise with her.

“Great,” he mutters.

The knock sounds again, slightly more urgent this time. “Mon-El? Are you in there? Are you okay?”

Giving himself a shake in the hopes of appearing calm, Mon-El swings open the door to find a confused, windblown, incredibly beautiful Kryptonian staring at him. “Yep. I’m in here,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry it took me so long. Did I miss the game?”

“No, no. Everybody kind of took a snack break, so I came to see what was holding you up, and I got worried because the windows were all dar—oh.” She breaks off suddenly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had…company.”

Company?

Mon-El’s on the verge of asking what she means when someone behind him clears their throat, and he almost yelps in shock.

“Right,” he says, turning to discover the leather-clad reason for his darkened-to-the-outside-world windows sitting on the arm of his couch. “Company. Uh, Kara, this is a sort of friend of mine…” Aiming a fiery glare at his returning visitor, he mouths a fierce _What the hell are you doing?_ at her.

“I’m Mia,” Tas says promptly, subtly exhibiting the boot in her left hand as she gives Kara a nod. “Mia Mallory.”

“Oh!” Kara smiles, lifting her hand in a wave though she now looks more confused than ever. “Hi. I’m Kara Danvers.”

“Oh. Yes.” Tas nods again, jamming her footgear back on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Mon-El aims a searing glare at her that she responds to with a bored-looking yawn. “What Mia means is that I was just saying—”

“—that you had to rush off and play games intended for children, yes. I’m sure she’s gathered that,” Tas fills in, tying the laces with a jerk. “Don’t worry; I’ll be off soon. I got what I came for.”

“Oh.” Kara glances between them, her gaze lingering on the boot for a bit before a small frown furrows her brow. “So. How do you guys know each other?”

“Work,” Mon-El answers—at the same time as Tas, thankfully.

“Oh,” Kara says again. “Work like the bar or…?”

He’s stopped from replying by a firm voice that implants the word _NO_ in his head as Tas begins a surprisingly believable story about how she’s a detective and they met at the police station.

_Let her do the talking,_ Imra murmurs placatingly when he starts to silently argue back. _Brainy’s running calculations on the effectiveness of each piece to the cover story and I’m feeding her the information. Just play along and try not to focus so much on Kara’s smile. It’s creating white noise, and we can’t afford any errors at this stage._

_Why?_ he demands silently, sensing the underlying hesitation in the telepath’s tones. _What exactly is at stake, and is any of this putting Kara in danger? Would you tell me if it were? Is there something_ I _need to do?_

_It’s best if you don’t know details,_ she replies, and he can feel the strain as nightmare scenarios invade his brain. _But no, none of the potential outcomes we’re trying to circumvent involve lethal threat to her. Just accept that the team is privy to certain hazards you won’t know about until they occur because that’s the way it has to be. Tas will act as go-between since her presence has been revealed, so corroborate her story and trust that no one’s torturing you—or Kara—for their own personal amusement._

_Right. Got it._

He manufactures a cheerful smile when he intercepts a frown from Kara (who’s still listening to Tas’ expressionless ramblings), but it’s like his head has decided to ignore everything that’s not a reaction to a bunch of insanely confusing information. After years of not quite knowing what he forgot, it’s overwhelming to have memories buzzing everywhere at once, and the weirdness is all the more astronomical because he doesn’t know what to feel about any of it. There’s a part of him that’s overjoyed at remembering and seeing his friends again, but there’s another part that distrusts their behavior. It’s too casual, or maybe it’s too planned. And that nagging feeling in his gut tells him there’s more to the story of why his memory was wiped _before_ he was sent on a mission to find Kara, but it also tells him to stay out of it. To not go looking for the answers because if he were meant to know them, he would’ve already been told.

By the time Tas departs—through the door, which she’s reminded to use thanks to a loud cough that once again drags Kara’s attention his way—Mon-El’s exhausted. He doesn’t really even know what it is he says in response to the indifferent _See you around_ that’s tossed over “Mia’s” shoulder, just that it’s a relief to not have whispered instructions rolling around in his head along with everything else. But as he’s locking the door, the unnatural silence registers, and he turns to find Kara scowling like she does when she’s lost in thought.

“Kara?” he says as they start off toward the stairs. His apartment’s on a higher floor than hers, and since the windows don’t open so good, it’s easiest to just go up one flight to the roof and take off from there. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She shakes her head, but the frown stays in place. “Just thinking about…stuff.”

Mon-El breathes out a laugh. “I know the feeling.”

She stays quiet for a second or two, then glances at him. “So, Mia. She seems nice.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s not sure _nice_ is the word he’d use to describe Tasmia Mallor, but maybe it’s true. “I guess she is.”

“Kinda secretive, though.”

Yeah, he can’t argue there.

“Well,” he says, catching her by the elbow so she doesn’t walk straight into the fake plant that she doesn’t seem to notice she’s heading toward. “I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“What kind of reasons?” Kara presses, the journalist note coming out in her voice as they head into the darkened stairwell—he hopes vaguely that Tas isn’t responsible for this one, too—and jog up to the roof. “Good reasons? Bad reasons?”

He laughs as he pushes open the exit door and flattens himself against it to let her pass. “I don’t know. But I assume if she told them, they wouldn’t be secrets, would they?”

“I just…” She waggles her head from side to side, speculative frown deepening as she strides ahead of him out onto the gravel-topped surface. “How well do you know her? You don’t think she’s like—dangerous or anything, do you?”

Mon-El chuckles ruefully, recalling a mission where the Shadow Champion of Talok VIII blacked out an entire city before anyone even knew she was there and inflicted a staggering number of injuries on her opponents by the time the rest of the team arrived to suggest a less violent approach.

“Actually, yes,” he says, turning to pull the rusty door closed behind them. “I think she’s extremely dangerous. Not to National City or its innocent inhabitants though, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Not exactly.”

He laughs again. “Okay, well, if you’re afraid she’s going to start snacking on faces like that one guy in that movie I _never_ want to see again, thank you, I’m pretty confident that she won’t—”

“Mon-El.” Her hand closes around his wrist, surprising him.

“What?” he says, sobering instantly as he reads the concern in her eyes. They’re both in the habit of semi-ignoring certain personal boundaries, and over the last few years, he’s grown maybe a little too accustomed to friendly elbows, bumped arms, and even the occasional head-to-shoulder lean. But there’s nothing teasing in this particular touch, and that worries him. “What am I missing, here?”

She sighs, the sound heavy in the chilly air. “I just…you know as well as I do that almost nothing in our lives is ever random. Mia probably falls in that category. I mean, I’m not a _hundred_ percent sure, but—I’m fairly certain she’s not from Earth.”

He schools his expression to one of offhand interest, reminding himself that in National City, being an alien is neither unheard of, nor a reason for alarm. He won’t be revealing the Legion’s existence at the wrong time if he acts like it’s not a big deal. “So?”

“So…oh, I don’t know.” She chews the tip of a finger, her entire face puckered in thought. “I guess I just want to make sure you’re not like, befriending your stalker or something.”

Mon-El’s eyebrows climb. “A stalker. For real?”

“Yeah!” Her arms perform some sort of windmill-like motion in the air as she searches for whatever she’s trying to say. “I mean…you go a lot of different places, you’re usually not monitoring the crowd around you, she told me while you were all zoned-out and pretending you weren’t back there—”

“Oh.” He winces. “You caught that, huh?”

“Please,” Kara scoffs. “You’re not subtle at _all_. How many times am I gonna have to tell you that?”

“Apparently several more,” he responds, smoothly deflecting the whack she aims at his arm. “I seem to be a slow learner.”

“Maybe.” She changes the backhand into a light pat, then sighs again. “Look, I’m not trying to rain on your parade or go all overprotective on you, but Mia mentioned something about having to track you down because you weren’t expecting her to drop by. To me, that’s a little weird.”

He smiles, her earnestness drawing him in the way it always has. “So what you’re saying is ‘don’t take candy from strangers?’”

“Well…” She shrugs. “Crazier things than a detective with evil agendas have been known to happen. And I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Ted Bundy—”

“I have.” And he still blamed Winn for how suspiciously he eyed men in grocery story parking lots. That documentary was maybe a bit too thorough. “Very creepy.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Kara shudders, grimacing. “My point is, he got as far as he did because people trusted him. And they trusted him because he seemed nice and normal. I just don’t want something like that to happen to you.”

He bursts out laughing, unable to contain himself as he absorbs the idea of Tas skulking around like the gruesome villains in those bloodcurdling-yet-corny movies Alex loves. “Kara, I’m flattered you think I’m cool enough to rate my own stalker, but no. That’s not an issue in this case. Mia follows around bad guys, not DEO reps who are also part-time bartenders.”

She cracks a smile, but it’s still too stiff for his liking, so he laughs and bumps her shoulder with his.

“How about this,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly at her as he leans back against the half-sized wall that hems in the rooftop. “I solemnly swear I’ll be really, really careful and stay on the lookout for any serial-killer type behavior she might exhibit. That work?”

Kara harrumphs, pulling her flyaway blue sweater closed when she folds her arms. “All right,” she grumbles after a bit, poking him sternly in the arm with each word. “But only as. Long. As. You. _Promise_. I don’t want you getting kidnapped or something because you decided to humor me and then went and ignored all the danger signs.”

His grin expands “I promise, Kara.” Then, because he honestly can’t help it, he gives her a quick wink. “Now let’s go earn ourselves a bunch of colorful paper money and see who can drive Winn to bankruptcy first.”

She explodes into an undignified snort of laughter that warms him through and through, and after they take off, each of them swearing they’re going to win this time, he sneaks glances at her. He can’t help loving her, especially not when she laughs like that, and is it terrible that he’s not even trying to stop himself anymore? Is he wrong to sit back and let the chips fall where they may in the hopes that one day everything will work out? He doesn’t know. But he also suspects he doesn’t care, because no matter what happens from this point on, he believes with all his heart that he spoke the truth on that rooftop five-plus years ago: it was worth it.

No, strike that—it _is_ worth it. When it comes to loving the woman who’s soaring along beside him singing _Come Fly With Me_ , it will always be worth it.

Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title taken from the song “Don’t You Remember” by Adele (aka the song to NEVER EVER listen to on a gray, rainy day, because hello darkness my old friend).  
> *The song stuck in Mon-El’s head is “867-5309/Jenny” by Tommy Tutone. It seemed like the kind of calling card someone would use if they were trying to go unnoticed by the general public, so I went with it.  
> *Before I forget: apologies for the editing job on that last chapter! I usually overlook SOMETHING during the proofreading process, but eek, that one was really bad. I was putting off an update on my computer and it kept locking up while I was editing, and me being me, I kept getting impatient and pressing the undo/redo buttons to see if things were working, so I accidentally backspaced some text. Then, because I uploaded in a hurry (this is why I try not to hurry, lol) I didn’t notice that the ends to a couple sentences were missing.  
> *My knowledge of the Legion is sketchy (and by “sketchy,” I mean I recognize a lot of them but don’t know anyone’s personality). Back in the 90s, I had one friend with an older brother who was obsessed with them, but I was little and I didn’t pay enough attention for that to help me now. And when that animated series was on TV, I was fourteen or fifteen and only watched it sometimes with my younger brother. So when I started writing this, I basically adapted everyone’s personalities according to what I thought would be the most likely TV take on their characters (I guessed MAJORLY wrong on Imra because the show made her not blonde and less detached than I expected, and Brainy turned out to be much funnier than I figured he would be). If the characters seem weird/wrong/unrecognizable to those in the know, that’s why. Also, I’m legitimately shocked (plus a little bummed) that the CW passed up a chance to do a background Imra/Garth thing. The parallels that could’ve been!  
> *These last few episodes. OH MY GOSH. Kara and Mon-El working/traveling together (YESSSSS). Space Grandpa’s leaving us (NOOOOO!). Eve Teschmacher knows about nuclear physics!?! (MY GURL. At the risk of misquoting Gamora, tell me again how she’s just a starry-eyed waif who succumbed to Mon-El’s pelvic sorcery? HAH. I feel like such a proud mama.) And that conversation on Leftover Krypton about feelings? Ugh. My heart. (Also, my younger sister has officially become a Karamel addict and it’s the funniest thing ever. During 3x21, she was so focused on the Kara/Mon storyline that she screeched “NOBODY CARES! GO BACK TO KARA AND MON-EL! GO BACK TO KARA AND MON-EL!” and after Mon’s “I don’t think I can lose her again” moment in 3x22, she face-planted on my couch and was like, “If they split them up again in the last episode, I’m never watching this stupid show again and I’m going to hate you forever for making me watch it.”)
> 
> *Okay. I listed this at 8 chapters, but I’m working on tying up loose ends, and it’s looking a lot like the last chapter is going to be WAY too long if I do it that way. (Last chapter started at 5k words and turned into about 8k, and this chapter was at 7k when I started revising and ended up at about 10k. The one I’m working on now is already at 6k, and there’s already at least three scenes of 2k+ words each that need to be connected.) What I’m thinking I’ll do instead is split it into two and make this a 9 chapter thing. So, let me know if you as a reader have a preference between:
> 
> ***OPTION 1: I wait to upload the next chapter (Chapter 8) until the very last chapter (Chapter 9) is finalized and can be uploaded along with it.
> 
> ***OPTION 2: I just upload the next chapter (Chapter 8) as soon as it’s finished.
> 
> **Thanks for reading/commenting, and sorry it’s taken so ridiculously long to get this thing done! Hope you all are having an awesome summer so far and that the angst isn’t getting anyone down too much! <3


	8. Turning In Circles And Blurring The Lines (Two More Years)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roughly two years after being introduced to Mia Mallory, Kara struggles to forget the past and accept the future.
> 
>  
> 
> (This is a horrible summary, but tragically, I can do no better at this particular moment. So here’s the more accurate but less elegant alternate summary: “Kara struggles. A lot. And then she finds things out and struggles some more.”) This is long, and so are the notes, so if you don't feel like reading them, the takeaways are: thanks, I love you guys, the story's almost done I promise, and I did my best to not end this chapter on a cliffhanger, but if it still feels incomplete so I'm sorry. <3

“Hey. Supergirl.”

The voice, originating from somewhere near the door to the training room, is light, the tone flat and bored with no obvious trace of mock, but it doesn’t matter. Kara’s reaction—muscles tensing, shoulders bunching themselves up around her ears—is swift. An instinctive defense mechanism probably left over from childhood that her body still hasn’t figured out won’t actually hide her from view.

“Yeah?” she says, restacking some mats and attempting a smile as she turns to see the newest addition to National City’s superpowered crime-fighting unit lounging against the doorframe like she’s in some kind of fashion show.

It’s been over a year now since she first learned that Mia Mallory’s insane success rate as a detective for the NCPD had a lot more to do with secret (not to mention seriously intimidating) shadow-casting abilities and borderline vigilante methods than A-plus Sherlock Holmesian skills. But even though she can now concede that the other girl doesn’t have stalking, world domination or anything like that on her mind, she’s still not thrilled with the arrangement. It’s just too…new. And different. And sometimes impossibly _frustrating_.

“What’s up?” she adds, crossing her arms as she wonders for what very well may be the bazillionth time if the Talokian owns so much as one item of clothing that’s not tight, black, and leathery. Not that there’s anything wrong with wearing lots of black or lots of leather, of course. It just exudes an intense, _What are YOU looking at, punk?_ kind of vibe that makes red skirts and boots seem a little silly and weak by comparison.

(Which they absolutely _are not_. There’s nothing even a little bit wrong with choosing to defend the Earth in red skirts and boots instead of spandex-y black leather that looks cool but impossible to move in, and if some people think there is, then that’s their problem. Kara certainly isn’t bothered by it. Not at all. Not one bit. Not even if it does sometimes feel a little like she’s back in Earth high school watching virtually everyone be cooler than her without half trying. She’s fine with it. Truly.)

“We’re meeting for drinks,” Mia says in her lackadaisical, kinda _dead_ sort of way. “Later, after work. You coming this time, or dodging us so you can spend yet another Friday night on your precious sofa consuming cartons of frozen dairy products while you view outdated television programs featuring long-deceased actors?”

It’s…a joke.

In theory, Kara knows it is and understands that no part of the pancake-flat sarcasm is meant to insult her or otherwise ruffle her feathers. But it feels like a jab—or at least a subtle indictment of her life choices—all the same, and she’s forced to grit her teeth as she responds with another not-real smile.

“The second, I think, but thanks anyway,” she says. “You guys just enjoy and tell me how it went.”

“How what went?”

_Great._

Kara stiffens even further, hands clenching into fists when Mon-El appears as if on cue and casually nudges past the spandex-covered leg Mia puts up to bar his entry. Of all the situations she _does not_ want to be in, this one has to top the list. Like…honest to Rao, she’ll take kryptonite over this. Really. Because while there’s been no announcement in two years from either Mon-El or Mia, not so much as a hint from either of them that they’re dating now, she’s not blind. They’ve always been way too comfortable around each other for colleagues who met while working for different employers, and she’s seen them around town enough to know that the two of them hang out more often than they ever mention around the rest of the DEO crowd. Once, for instance, she spotted them heading into an alley after what she could’ve sworn was a guy pushing some kind of food cart, but when she asked about it later, they both denied it. In sync. And then she saw them exchange nervous looks when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. Besides all that—she’s noticed how frequently they tend to show up to meetings, emergencies, or hangout sessions together, not to mention how one of them always seems to be at the other’s apartment before anyone else gets there for movie night.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly, hoping the chance to get out of this with minimal discussion still exists. “Nothing emergency-related, that is.”

Mia lifts a shoulder, head tilting to the side as she addresses the newest arrival. “The Kryptonian’s bailing on drinks and fun again. Try to contain your shock.”

“Not _bailing_ ,” Kara puts in swiftly as Mon-El quirks an eyebrow in her direction. “I just…don’t really feel up to painting the town even sorta red tonight, you know?”

Especially not when doing so means she’ll have a close-up view of Mr. and Ms. Flirtsville. The last time she went to the bar to hang out with everyone was kind of terrible. Mon-El and Mia spent about half the evening glancing at each other, rolling their eyes, and at one point, they were both bent so close over the bulky black watch she always wears trying to reset it or something that their heads were practically touching. Then after throwing out some totally flimsy excuse, they took off and she caught sight of them hurrying side by side down the street in the general direction of his apartment, so yeah, she really doesn’t need to put herself through all that again.

“I’ve got a lot of Netflix to catch up on,” she tries. “Gotta…avoid those spoilers at all costs.”

“Well, all right. If you say so.” Mon-El casts an easy grin at her, swinging his arms back and forth the way he always does to loosen up as he heads toward the heavy-duty punching bags. “But just so you go into this refusal with all the information, Winn is spreading rumors that James will be impersonating Mariah Carey tonight. Apparently it’s part of a Settlers of Catan bet from last week, and it promises to be epic. Like Alex is threatening to bring popcorn and actual film cameras and J’onn is canceling all other plans just to be there epic.”

“Ah. Well. As much as I do hate to miss that…” Kara squeezes out a laugh that does nothing to alter the weird, hollow twinge in her chest when Mia flings a glove at Mon-El’s head and he sidesteps it without even turning. “I could really use the night in. This last week’s been pretty busy, and—”

“Right, of course.” Yawning, Mia taps a hand against her mouth. “Beauty sleep for the homebody and all that.”

“Exactly.”

Donning another plastic smile, Kara bids the two utterly un-secretive lovebirds goodbye and escapes into the hall where she can breathe again. As afternoons at the DEO go, this one’s been relatively quiet; still, her head’s pounding like a bunch of tiny blacksmiths are inside trying to outfit an entire army for war. And it sucks, because there’s absolutely nothing to be sick about. If her current situation is a mess—and she’s not sure she’s ready to believe that quite yet—it’s a mess of her own design; one she chose to make for a very good reason.

Not that being aware of all that is much comfort.

Closing her eyes, Kara stifles a sigh as she zips to the landing and takes off for home.

_I just…I think it’s better this way, you know? For both of us. If we decide to leave everything that happened—leave us—in the past._

No matter how many times she tells herself to stop replaying her stupid words over in her mind, it does no good. They’re engraved in her subconscious, probably forever, because it’s officially happened: five years, six months, two weeks, and three days (plus maybe a year or so; she’s not positive when the secret relationship began) after she made her little speech, Mon-El seems to have finally taken it to heart. He’s met a girl—an alien with superhero ambitions and skills of her own who’s very cool, very assertive, and seems to rarely make mistakes—and he definitely likes her.

Which is fine, really.

Mia, even if she is a bit cold and standoffish, and even if Kara did have Winn look up her forged Earth birth certificate within twenty-four hours of meeting her just to make sure she was on the up and up, is objectively awesome. She’s an excellent ally, an excellent fighter, and the kind of endlessly capable teammate anyone would be delighted to have watching their back. And though her brusque personality sometimes rubs Kara the wrong way, it doesn’t really matter. The important thing, after all, is that the city is as safe as they can make it, and Mia’s a huge asset when it comes to that. Besides, even if Kara hated Mia—which she _doesn’t_ —it’s none of her business who Mon-El wants to spend his free time with. He’s got the right to date anyone he wants; he doesn’t need her permission or even her approval of his selection, and she’s certainly done her best to convince him that they both need to stay far away from that area anyway.

But even though she’s extremely cognizant of the many reasons why who Mon-El dates shouldn’t be a big deal, there’s a sting to it all that refuses to go away. Because…of all the options available in National City—of all the options available in the world, in the _universe_ even—he’s gone and chosen another alien.

With superpowers.

Who works right beside him.

Who _isn’t_ a giant dork.

And for Rao’s sake, if he’s so _Eh, whatever_ about the dangers of dating a superhero co-worker who has lots of enemies out to get them too, why, _why_ would he want to be with a woman who doesn’t get—or even acknowledge—half his dumb jokes?

It’s petty of her to be bothered. Ridiculous, too; she knows that and is even kind of horrified at herself for caring.

But knowing it shouldn’t matter and getting herself to stop feeling like it does are two completely different things, and as time passes, it begins to take a toll on her. At night, she changes into her pajamas at a nice, reasonable hour, climbs into bed, turns out her light, and then proceeds to stare at the ceiling ‘til dawn, trying _not_ to think about the ex-boyfriend who she doesn’t want to date dating someone new. (And doing nothing else; sometimes she even has nightmarish dreams that make her feel like even her brain’s playing tricks on her.) Shadows start popping up under her eyes like ugly little crescent moons, and it’s mortifying because Mon-El notices and asks if she’s all right, and then Mia overhears him asking and volunteers to take on more work if Kara needs the rest.

So naturally, Kara smiles politely, thanks the Talokian for the offer, and redoubles the number of reconnaissance missions she takes around the city. _Just_ so she doesn’t have to see those two interacting like the perfect little worried-parents couple. And not long after that, she quits calling for backup except in cases of extreme emergency. Because what’s the point? She’s Supergirl. All she has to be is careful enough, and she’ll be fine. She doesn’t _need_ help.

Besides, it’s easier to catch a falling building or throw an eighteen-wheeler down as a roadblock when she’s alone.  When Mon-El and Mia are there too, she feels like—well, she doesn’t know what she feels like. She just knows it’s nothing good. Knows that having them there distracts her. Makes her careless and sloppy, like she isn’t when she’s on her own.

_I am being careful,_ she insists whenever Alex or Winn or J’onn expresses concern about some of her one-woman operations. _I’ve got this._

And she does.

Until one day when she doesn’t, and it all backfires.

_Yeah, sure_ she says to Winn’s suggestion that she notify M &M before heading out to investigate a ring of innocuous-looking smugglers. _I’ll let them know on my way out or something._ But she has no intention of actually doing it; she’s tired and doesn’t feel up to dealing with the challenge of the company. So she pretends to overlook it and pays the price: she and her sleepy stupor end up flying straight into a trap that’s filled with shiny green weapons.

Next thing she knows, she’s waking up in the DEO infirmary with a freaked-out Alex hovering nearby, hearing all about how Mon-El and Mia found her unconscious on the floor of a warehouse, how Mia had to black out six blocks to give Mon-El time extract Kara, and how Alex and a team of doctors had to remove thirteen kryptonite-laced bullets from her leg and invent a way to pump her lungs to get rid of the aerosolized kryptonite she’d also been attacked with. It’s apparently strongly recommended that she go home to recuperate, but Alex insists on driving her and makes her promise to take the night off, eat right, and _sleep._

“And no flying for at least forty-eight hours,” her sister adds as she departs, pointing sternly. “I’m serious. I know your body repairs itself quickly, but humor me anyway. Also, since Mom’s not here to say it for me—eat some vegetables. They may not help, but they sure as hell can’t hurt.”

Kara promises.

But the second Alex leaves, kindly but rather obviously not questioning why Kara was so eager to escape the DEO before the rest of the Super Squad returned from netting the warlord wannabes, all Kara can think about is how embarrassing this is. How her own stubborn stupidity culminated in being rescued by none other than her ex and his new girlfriend.

And yeah, maybe it’s silly of her to care, but _Rao,_ does that last part ever gall her. Of all the potential saviors she could have had…ugh, it’s just so infuriating.

She broods about it thoroughly—while she reads, while she solves five different crossword puzzles, even while she showers. Then, because she just can’t stand sitting still while a boringly-empty evening stretches before her, she changes into an old t-shirt and a faded pair of flannel pajama pants covered in ice-cream cones, and goes to work cleaning house. Alex would never approve, of course, but it’s not like the place is filthy and requires a lot of energy-expending elbow-grease. And hey, even if it’s not relaxing, it is cathartic. So there’s that.

Halfway through the process though, the hunger pangs strike and she’s forced to pause for foraging purposes. But since none of the vegetables in her fridge seem remotely appetizing, she decides that oh, what the hell, she might as well quit trying to honor the second part of her promise and just order pizza. Because pizza delivery people tell no tales and pass no judgements, and anyway, what Alex doesn’t know won’t kill her.

But even that turns out more complicated than anticipated. Because when the knock sounds and she flings open the door with her usual greedy enthusiasm to find that it’s _not_ the pizza guy she was expecting, her prepared greeting flies straight out of her head.

“Mon-El,” she says blankly, feeling very much like she’s being unjustly punished for one small bout of sneakiness. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, blinking a little, no doubt caught off guard by the suddenness of her appearance. He recovers quickly however, the startled look disappearing as he wiggles the stack of boxes tantalizingly in front of her. “Pizza? Ran into the delivery guy at the entrance. Figured I knew where he was headed, so I told him I’d bring it up.”

“Ah. Yeah. Thanks,” she flounders. _Wow_ , this is so, so not fair. She’s supposed to be exchanging polite-speak with a stranger right now, not wondering if she looks as shabby as she feels. “Uh, give me a sec; I’ll pay you back?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Not like you haven’t bought me stuff before.” He shrugs carelessly, but twists away fast when she reaches to grab the boxes from him. “Hey, nuh-uh Supergirl. You _literally_ took bullets today. The least I can do is carry this so you don’t have to exert yourself.”

“Oh, come on.” She rolls her eyes, even though she knows he’s teasing her. “They’re _cardboard._ They’re not even heavy for a human with normal strength. I’m pretty sure I can manage.”

“Yeah, but Alex said you’re supposed to be resting,” he counters. “Although from the looks of things, someone’s not exactly following orders since she also said you were supposed to be lying down and eating large amounts of produce. Hold on, are you _housecleaning_?”

“No,” she begins, making an X of herself in the doorway as if that’s going to prevent him from seeing the army of cleaners lined up on the counter, the bright yellow pair of rubber gloves draped over a chair back, or the vacuum, broom, and mop sitting right out in the open. “I mean…maybe. Kind of.”

His eyebrows go up, an incredulous laugh bursting out of him. “ _Ooh._ You’re gonna be in so much _trouble_ when she finds out _…_ ”

“Humph.” She makes a face at him, snatching the top box before he can stop her and marching with all the dignity she possesses over to the table. “Not if you don’t squeal on me, I won’t. And anyway, what’s the difference? Earth food doesn’t affect me the same as humans.”

He smirks. “I doubt Alex will see it that way, but here, how about this: I swear I won’t squeal as long as you promise to take your medicine.”

“My what?” Her nose wrinkles automatically at the word, and she suddenly recalls a bottle of gross-looking liquid being handed to her at the DEO and Alex talking about how it would make her cells more receptive to sunlight and stuff. In the rush to avoid running into the very person she’s currently talking to—talk about appointments in Samarra, sheesh—she must’ve left it behind. “Oh, _great_. Is that—?”

“Yep.” He tosses her the bottle, chuckling again when she catches and then half-whines at it. “A while after Alex got back from dropping you off, she saw you forgot it. She had some work to do and I was on my way out, so I told her I’d bring it over. ’Cause, you know.” He smiles at her over the top of the lid as she motions for him to hold it so she can tear off a slice. “I had to make sure my partner was doing all right. It was looking a little scary there earlier.”

“Uggg. I know, I know,” she mumbles around a mouthful of cheesy, gooey goodness. “Seems I was quite the show. Never mind they got caught—those dealers’ll probably be bragging about the whole thing in prison. I mean, I flew _right_ into their evil little nest. That’s got to be like the bad guy dream or something—superheroes who march right on into Villain HQ and basically ask to be shot at. It’s so embarrassing.”

“Yeah, about that.” Mon-El cocks his head, his expression suddenly serious. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” She frowns. “Yeah, right as rain. I mean, my leg’s still a little sore, but no worse than like a bruise after a tough fistfight or something. Alex is just worried and wanting me to rest up and take medicine because I got de-strengthened for a bit.”

“No, I mean are you _okay_ okay?” he explains, leaning forward a little as he scrutinizes her.

She laughs, confusion temporarily overridden by amusement. “ _Okay_ okay? What does that mean?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You know—are you _feeling_ okay? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” she repeats, coughing as a bite of food scratches its way down her throat. “Uh, no? Why would you think that? Why would something be wrong?”

The look he gives her brims with skepticism. “Because Kara, it’s not like you to blow past that many completely obvious _HEY, WATCH OUT_ signs. And frankly, you’ve been really busy lately, but you seem like you’re still barely getting any sleep.”

“Ha,” Kara snorts before she has the chance to think better of it. “You’re one to talk about missing out on sleep, Mr. Social Butterfly.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

A tiny wrinkle creases the area between his brows and she knows right away that she’s made a mistake. _Crap,_ she thinks, apprehensively ramming another oversized bite of pizza into her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Maybe if she keeps very quiet, he’ll let this one go without an explanation.

But of course, her luck’s not quite that good.

“Kara?” Mon-El says after a beat or two, tilting his head to one side and regarding her with mingled curiosity and amusement.

“It’s nothing,” she answers quickly.

“No, social butterfly? That’s what you said, right?” he presses. “You think I’m not getting enough sleep because I’m out socializing too much? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, okay? I said nothing,” Kara snaps, wondering why in the world she can’t keep her big mouth shut. “Or—if I did, I didn’t mean anything by it, anyway. I’m just…rambling.”

“Uh-huh.” His face is solemn, but he taps a finger against a spot on his forehead and she realizes her stupid forehead crinkle is out in full force.

 “Oh...” Ignoring his chuckle, Kara finishes the last of her first slice and heads for the safety of the kitchen under pretense of getting a plate. “Shut up.”

“Hey, _I_ really didn’t say anything,” he protests, chuckling again.

“Yeah, well…” She can’t come up with anything blistering enough to throw at him and settles for a loud harrumph instead. “Now you did. So shut up.”

“All right. All right.” He holds up his hands like it’s a surrender, eyes twinkling in a way that instantly irritates her because she knows full well it means he’s only humoring her. “Shutting up. You didn’t say anything, and I didn’t hear anything.”

“Yeah, I’m a little shaky on the exact definition, but I’m pretty sure that’s _not_ shutting up?” she returns, not even caring that the snipe comes out sharper than intended.

“Mm.” He dips his head like he’ll give her that one, but his glance is too mirthful for her to believe he’s actually backing off. “True. But, I kind of can’t help it. I’m just…too curious about what’s allegedly _not_ eating my partner to remember stuff like that.”

Oh, so now he’s decided to play detective. Lovely _._

Annoyance rising, Kara rips two giant triangles off the pie, doubles them in on each other, and takes a savage chomp.

“Ah _SET_ ,” she proclaims loudly, the words trapped somewhere in a tangle of hot bread and cheese, “errs nuffin wrongif me. Ahm _FINE_. Awshome.”

“I know you did.” His lips twitch watching her fight a rogue strand of mozzarella, but otherwise, he remains serious. “Just like I also know you told Winn you were fine this morning right before you decided not to call for backup and walked straight into a trap, and like you told Alex you were fine right before you skedaddled home so quick you forgot the medicine an entire lab worked very hard to create for you.”

“And?” she mutters belligerently, shoving the rest of her pizza sandwich into her mouth.

He shrugs. “I don’t know for sure, except neither of those things is like you. You tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Okay, then.”

He sits in silence while she chews, but it’s clear he’s not buying it and she can feel her nerves winding tighter and tighter with every second that passes. He said he was on his way out when he heard about her forgetting the medicine. _Out,_ like he had specific plans. Besides bringing it to her and checking to make sure she’s alive and all that, what is he doing here?

“So,” she says finally, swallowing in a gulp and wishing—not for the first time—she could tell what’s going on in his head. “Are you just gonna sit there and watch, or are you actually gonna eat with me?”

He laughs. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m kinda full from the pizza I had earlier, to be honest.”

“Earlier?”

“Lunch,” he clarifies. “Before we uh, got the SOS about you and the warehouse, we were having a little pizza party in the breakroom.”

“Oh.” Kara turns her attention to a fourth slice so she doesn’t have to face him while she asks the question that refuses to leave her mind. “You and Mia, huh?”

“Yes,” he says slowly. “And Winn. And J’onn. And Alex. And most of the rest of the DEO. You would have been there too, if you hadn’t been off protecting the city while flying tired.”

She ignores the broad hint, choosing instead to huff as she takes another bite. “So did _Mia_ like the pineapple pizza too?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did.”

_Of course_. A cold, heavy sense of something— imminent doom, maybe—settles over her, and Kara hears herself snort as if from a distance.

“ _Great_ ,” she comments. “Good for her. You must be…so proud.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess?”

Casually, almost like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, Mon-El picks up a napkin and crumples it into a ball. Kara observes the move in silence for a second, trying to figure out what he’s up to, when he reaches unexpectedly across the table to swipe the little wad of paper over her chin. And it’s nothing; he’s done it probably a thousand times or more and she’s never once questioned it, but tonight, it makes her freeze.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she manages to ask, her voice as level as she can school it under the circumstances.

“What?” he says, chuckling as he displays a lumpy stripe of red on the thing before dabbing at her again. “You’re like a child, Kara; you’ve got sauce everywhere.”

“No!” Knocking his hand away, she shoves her stool back hard, heart pounding erratically as she jumps up. “I mean, what do you think you’re _doing_?” she repeats shakily. “Here, now, with me. Mon-El, why are you _here_? What is going on? Why are you acting like this?”

“I thought…” His brow furrows, confusion spiraling across his face. “Did I not explain that when I first got—”

“ _You have Mia!_ ” she almost shouts, something in the outburst wringing her insides. “Why are you still hanging around me?”

“What?” He stares at her, mouth agape. “Kara, I don’t think I…look, what are you talking about?”

“I know, okay?” she bites out, crossing her arms over her chest because somehow, it helps. “I’m not a complete idiot. I know about you and Mia. I’ve seen you guys, the way you’re always sneaking off together.”

“You have?”

He slumps, with relief she guesses since he doesn’t seem too upset, and she wonders with an indescribably stabbing pain in her chest how long he was planning to go without telling her.

“Yes I have, and I cannot _believe_ you didn’t tell me!” Now her voice’s rising again, but she can’t stop it. “I mean, I know we’ve got a totally complicated past, and yes, it’s a little weird for me to see you with someone else, but come _on_! I’m not that immature! I would be…” She clamps her mouth shut, cropping the end of the sentence so she can amend it. “I _am_ happy for you guys,” she finishes, voice softening. “Truly.”

For a long moment, Mon-El stares at her. A series of expressions crosses his face, each stranger than the last, until suddenly, a smile that make absolutely no sense whatsoever turns up the corners of his mouth.

“Kara,” he says steadily. “Mia and I aren’t dating.”

Oh, Rao. She has no idea whether that’s better or worse news, because if they aren’t dating but they _are_ sneaking off together _…_

“I…never said you were,” she answers, trying to force a laugh that fails miserably. “Look, I’m sorry I blew up like that. It’s just that I’m tired, and I—”

“We’re not having no-strings-attached sex either,” he says matter-of-factly.

Kara nearly chokes.

“Oh my God, _seriously_?” she sputters when she can speak again, grabbing her plate and retreating to the kitchen again because oh, she is so, _so_ done eating now. Now it’s cleanup time again, and she picks up the nearest dishcloth so he knows that, too. “Mon- _El,_ ” she emphasizes. “Who you date, who you…do or don’t do? That’s not what I was—I mean, it’s not something I care to—I mean, _gross_. That’s none of my business! What makes you think I would _ever_ want to know that?”

“Well, for one thing…”

When he doesn’t elaborate instantly, she turns. And finds him right behind her, eyebrows raised in almost snotty knowingness.

“For one thing what?” she snaps, twisting the cloth in her hands because the nervousness she feels whenever he’s too close is probably triple its normal levels.

He smiles, the look on his face saying he isn’t fooled at all by her tone. “For one thing, you’re always asking. Who I’m dating, I mean. Not the other one.”

“Well _duh_ , is that not what friends do?” she shoots back indignantly.

But it’s not as compelling a red herring as she’d like it to be. Her voice is on the shriller side, and she stumbles a little over the word _friends,_ because somewhere along the way, it’s begun to acquire a bitter flavor when she uses it in reference to Mon-El.

“Oh, okay.” He plucks the dishcloth from her hands and holds it up for inspection, clicking his tongue when he sees the way it’s half-shredded from all her twisting. “So you’re saying that’s it? You _only_ ask because we’re friends?”

“ _Yes,_ ” she responds, snatching the cloth back from him and randomly flinging it into the sink before propping her hands on her hips. “I only ask because we’re friends. Why is that so hard to understand?”

“Mhmm.” He plants his hands atop his hips, matching her. “Well. Maybe because you’re crinkling again?”

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, _damn_ it. Of course she is.

“Just because there’s a crinkle doesn’t mean I’m lying,” she informs him with as much defiance as her agitated nerves will allow.  “Believe it or not, sometimes a crinkle really is just a crinkle.”

Mon-El nods. Slowly. But right as she’s starting to hope that she’s convinced him, that this is the end of all this, he heaves a sigh and suddenly straightens up.

“Okay,” he says, eyebrows lifted. “Prove it.”

There’s no time to ask what he means. He disappears in a blur, turns up the volume on her cleaning music, then reappears in front of her amid the strains of what sounds like the Glenn Miller Orchestra.

Eyes boring into hers, he holds out a hand. “Dance with me, partner.”

For a few seconds, all Kara can do is stare at the proffered hand like it’s some sort of bomb that’ll detonate the instant she contacts it. Although, come to think of it, that’s maybe too accurate a comparison—in a way, it is an awful lot like being confronted by a deadly weapon. Even standing this close to him is dangerous. She knows it, he knows it, and what’s more, he knows she knows it.

Drawing a deep breath, she pull herself together.

“Mon-El,” she tells him, scoffing like she couldn’t care less. “Don’t—don’t be ridiculous.”

“How’m I being ridiculous?” he asks without moving his hand. “And anyway, why not?”

“Because…” _Because you can’t. Because_ I _can’t._ “Because I’m tired and my leg is hurt. I’m supposed to take it easy.”

He sighs again, eyes going to the ceiling for a moment like he’s exhausted before flicking back to her. “Remind me: how long ago was it you were cleaning house with your hurt leg and saying it was fine?”

“Look,” she mutters. “If I’m going to be breaking rules I agreed to, it needs to be for useful stuff. Like—tidying up, or laundry, or the dishes. Not proving a stupid point, so...”

“Kara,” he says softly. “One dance.”

She makes the mistake of raising her eyes, and her resolve falters. Oh _Rao_ , she’s an idiot, isn’t she?

“Fine,” she croaks, the word clipped and hostile. “One dance. But that is _it._ ”

He smiles, wiggling his fingers in invitation. “Agreed.”

Slowly, gingerly, she places her hand in his, and a shiver she badly wants to banish tickles up her back. He draws her in, smoothly, and she works hard to pretend that the warm pressure of his hand on the curve of her waist means nothing—absolutely nothing. That the way her left hand starts to curl around his neck while her forearm rests on his shoulder isn’t as automatic or nerve-shattering as it feels. That this isn’t special; she’s just goofing off with a friend.

But it’s no good. She stiffens anyway, stumbling a little.

“Hey.” He says it gently, thumb brushing over hers. “Just take a breath, and relax.”

Kara shakes her head, vision misting around the edges. “I can’t,” she whispers.

Her tongue trips over the words and she clamps her eyes shut so she doesn’t have to see him looking at her like that—soft, and sweet, and loving. The way he’s looked at her for far too long now. The way she _wants_ him to look at her, but also the way she fears.

“Why not?” he murmurs back, his voice so hopeful it actually hurts.

Without quite intending to, she steps closer and wraps her arm fully around his neck.

“You know why,” she says.

She’s not crying _exactly_ as she lets her head fall to his shoulder, but she’s so very near tears that she might as well be, and the way he’s holding her isn’t helping. She hasn’t been held like this in ages; not since that time right after he came back and was just figuring out who he’d been, what _they’d_ been, and even that pales in comparison because it was so wild and frantic. This isn’t. This is safe and comfortable, but also terrifying and heartbreaking, and she can’t seem to do anything about anything except try to get as close to him as she can, and even that’s no good because all it does is make her want to cry worse than ever, because all it is is wanting something she knows she can’t have.

“Kara,” he says quietly into her ear, his stubble-roughened cheek scratching hers lightly as she leans into it.

“What?” she mumbles. Her throat feels swollen and rough, raw like she’s been screaming, and it costs almost every ounce of remaining strength just to force the word out.

“I’m not sure, just…” The hand holding hers tightens like he senses her inner struggle; and, realistically speaking, he probably does. Always has. Why would that change now? “Can we _please_ stop pretending this is working?”

“I don’t understand. What do you—” she begins, breaking off when she realizes the pointlessness of such a denial. Really, who is she trying to fool? Herself? Certainly not him. “I mean…”

“Yes?” he prompts after half a minute goes by in silence, tilting his head to the side to rest against hers.

She takes a wavering breath, his little gesture waking a multitude of memories she’s done a very decent job of suppressing for years now. “I don’t know what I mean,” she murmurs at length. “Just, this isn’t…it’s not how it was before. And it can’t ever be that again. You _know_ that.”

“Yeah, I do.” He lifts their linked hands up to his mouth. Places a tiny kiss that shoots a burst of fire all the way through her atop her fingers. “But just ’cause some things are different doesn’t mean everything is.”

“Mon-El.” There’s a scab on her heart; a huge one, one she’s worked hard to put there, and she can feel it trying to reopen itself under the weight of his tenderness. Pulse spiraling out of control, she shakes her head fast, sending a few stray drops splattering through the air around them. “Some things—they’re just not meant to be _._ Even if we’d like them to be; even if it feels like they should be. They’re just _not._ ”

“Fair enough.” His breath grazes her skin when he sighs, the warm, velvety little gust making her shiver. “Can I ask you something, though?”

_No._

The word’s on the tip of her tongue, and she means to say it. She’s already cut herself too much slack, already undermined years’ worth of work by letting this go as far as it’s already gone—anything he has to say will only make it harder for her to do the smart thing. She doesn’t just mean to tell him no, she _needs_ to tell him no.

So, naturally, she says yes.

And regardless of the fact that the music’s picked up speed, he sways them leisurely from side to side. “Do you ever think that maybe we _are_ meant to be?” he asks, angling his chin back to peer into her face. 

“No.”

Now—of course—she’s able to say it, the denial strong and rapid as she shakes her head again.

“ _No_ like you don’t think we are, or _no_ like you try not to think about it?” he presses gently, moving the hand on her back up to brush some hair out of her face. “Because there’s kind of a big difference.”

Rao, she hates this. _Hates_ it. In her mind, everything’s clear-cut. Un-smudged. Easy to sort out. Yes, not jaunting right back down the road that can really only bring more truckloads of heartache her way is the smartest choice. No, dropping every guard she’s ever established is not a good idea. But the second he touches her, it’s like her brain decides to pack up and go on vacation, and then it all goes crazy and muddled and she doesn’t know anymore—the lines between _Yes, I should_ and _No, I shouldn’t_ get way too blurred, and she finds herself caught up in a painful dilemma she can’t seem to fight or flee.

“Just…no,” she answers, voice cracking as she tries to maintain control. “I can’t do any better than that. I’m sorry.”

Pulling away, she strikes out blindly for the couch and drops down on it with an audible thump, biting her lip to squelch a growing sob. But the distance isn’t enough. She can sense the meltdown coming anyway and turns her back toward him so he can’t see. Why, _why_ she wonders furiously, does this have to be so hard? She knows they can’t be anything more than friends; not anymore. She knows why. Knows it’s for the best. Knows she wants him to be happy, even though it absolutely, positively, cannot be with her.

So why can’t she just stop wanting him?

“Kara,” he says from over by the counter, his voice quiet.

She scrunches her eyes shut, sending a hot trickle of saltwater down her cheeks. “Yeah?” she responds, hoping she sounds calm.

“I didn’t come here with the intention of upsetting you. I’m sorry. I’m going to leave, but before I do…” Footsteps creak across the floor toward her, and she tries not to tense. “There is one more thing.”

She pretends to scratch an itch near the right side of her forehead and drags the heel of her hand across her eye. “What?”

“Here.” Almost before she knows it he’s beside her. Taking her hand, the one that’s still slick with tears, he pries open the tight-curled fingers with a gentleness that just makes everything worse. “I think this belongs to you,” he says, laying a hard, cool object on her open palm.

For one second—two, three—she can’t fathom what he means. Then her brain kicks in and identifies the little shape pressing into her skin: Mom’s necklace.

And immediately, it’s like an ocean of kryptonite’s been dumped on her.

“Mon-El,” she whispers, heart constricting. “You don’t have to—”

“No.” He smiles, breathing out a laugh as his hands close around hers in a momentary squeeze. “I do. I made a promise, and I don’t know if you noticed, but…it’s been seven years.”

“Mon-El,” she says again, the rest of her meaning trapped somewhere inside her closed-up throat— _Mon-El, you don’t have to do this. Mon-El, it was a gift, not a loan. Mon-El, I’m so sorry. Mon-El, I didn’t just decide to stop loving you._ “I…”

“Hey.” The side of his mouth twists into a crooked grin when she finally gets up enough courage to look at him. “I had my turn with it, and it did a great job. Besides, after today…there’s no way you’re convincing me you can’t use some extra-special necklace protection.”

A laugh, broken and half-strangled, burbles out of her, and she hates herself for it. Because this isn’t funny. Not in the slightest. This _hurts_ ; he hurts and she hurts, and they’re only hurting because of her, but if she doesn’t hurt them both now, it’ll just eventually be so much worse, and this…this is bad enough. Truly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to hold his gaze. His hands are warm around hers, warm and full of memories she wouldn’t trade for anything, and he doesn’t flinch when her grip tightens to bone-crushing levels, but it still feels like she’s floating in an atmosphere without enough oxygen to support her. “I really am sorry. I swear to Rao I’m not doing this for the fun of it.”

“I know.” He gives her another smile, this one so sweet and understanding that it cuts through her like she’s made of paper. “And it’s okay, Kara. I get it.”

“It’s just…it’s my job.” She’s rambling now, without a single clue what she’s saying anymore. It’s not speaking so much as it’s like half-listening to the story some stranger’s telling when all she really wants to do is curl into a ball and cry, but still she keeps on, pouring out her messy thoughts to him like there’s no tomorrow. “Saving people—it’s what I do. What I _have_ to do. If I’m needed, I go. Whatever has to be done, I do it. Me. I have to. I can’t just let things get in the way, I can’t let myself get hurt, because when I get hurt, what I do, what I become...it’s not good. And then other people get hurt. And I just—”

“I _know_ , Kara,” he says again, his voice soft. “I really do.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to care about you,” she whispers. “I just _can’t_. Not in that way.”

“I know.” He taps a thumb against the back of her hand, and this would be so, _so_ much easier if he would just stop smiling at her like that; if he would get angry, or upset, or tell her he hates her or he’s tired of her doing this, or _something_. “Gotta save the world first, huh?”

“Uh-huh. Lot and life of a superhero.” She blinks quickly, the choking sensation in her throat quadrupling even as she tries to smile. “And all that jazz.”

“Yeah.” Releasing her hand, he leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead in a kiss that cracks the few remaining _un-_ shattered pieces of her heart. “Kinda why I love you, Girl of Steel.”

She holds it together—barely—until the door clicks shut behind him and his footsteps fade. Then, almost numb with emotion, she sinks face-first into the sofa pillows and lets the tears fall freely.

_I had to,_ she thinks, though whether she’s addressing herself, the pillow, or the empty silence of the room that seems to accuse her is a mystery. Not that the answer really matters—knowing she did what she should have is no comfort at all, and she cries for a long time…sometimes quietly, sometimes in loud, noisy hiccups that make her put her hands over her ears just so she doesn’t have to hear herself. Every piece of her throbs with a dull, deadly ache, and the rough fabric of the pillow grows damper and damper beneath her cheek until finally, she’s so exhausted she just falls asleep right there on the couch.

But even that provides no escape; maybe it’s her awkward sleeping position, maybe it’s the emotional fatigue, but her dreams are too messy for her to get any true rest. Rather than being hazy and calming, they’re vivid and full of ghostly battles with an unnamed, heavy darkness that somehow scares her without taking actual form. Added to that, there’s a tired, disapproving version of herself that keeps showing up at random moments and suggesting she think very carefully about what it is she’s doing, so when she startles herself awake to a world still shadowed with midnight blues and grays, she’s not all that surprised.

“Oh, _yay_ ,” she mumbles sarcastically, wincing and putting a hand up to her swollen, fuzzy-feeling eyes as she pushes herself into a sitting position. “Perfect.”

Here in her dark, still apartment, it’s hard to think beyond her cramped limbs, the headache-y sensation every time she moves, and how very much like a super-duper wrung-out sponge she currently feels. But Dream Kara’s insistent voice refuses to leave her alone ( _Forever is a long time. Especially when it’s spent regretting something you could have fixed. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?)_ , and the harder she tries to ignore the thoughts bearing down on her, the more they echo mercilessly through her _._ Which is kind of starting to unravel her. Because no, she’s not sure she _knows_ what she’s doing. But she _believes_ she’s doing the right thing, and isn’t that basically all she can do?

She doesn’t know that either.

In fact, she just feels extraordinarily vague and out of it, so when the back-and-forthing with herself becomes almost unbearable, she heads for the window in the hopes of gaining some perspective while flying. But right as she’s stepping up onto the sill, preparing to launch herself into the really early morning (or really late night) sky, it occurs to her that soaring around the city requires a bit more effort than cleaning, and she’s already wearier than she should be. The urge to get out, to go somewhere no one’ll think of looking for her, to feel the cool breeze on her face while she watches the sun wake up is too strong to resist though, so she changes plans.

In a matter of minutes she’s slipping quietly out onto the roof of the building, sweatshirt thrown on over her pajamas, fluffy slippers padding noiselessly across the patchy surface. No one comes up here, not ever, so she doesn’t bother searching her surroundings for the perfect hiding place—she just sits down in the middle of the area and opens the box of popcorn she grabbed on her way out. The snack crunches satisfyingly between her jaws, the noise rhythmic and somehow comforting, but still the clamp on her heart persists.

And she notices, a humorless laugh escaping, that in her hurry, she grabbed a sweatshirt that doesn’t even belong to her—it’s Mon-El’s. A plain gray thing that used to look nice and new but now has bleach stains, a zipper that sticks like a burr, and a hole in one pocket from that time he forgot and jammed his hands into it too quickly. She’s been after him to get rid of for a while now, but for some ridiculous reason, he won’t do it. Even though he’s forever forgetting it at game nights because she always threatens to destroy it with heat vision and he makes a big show of hiding it under everyone else’s coats to keep it safe, he still hangs onto it.

Which is funny, she thinks gloomily, stuffing another handful of popcorn into her mouth, because it’s so poetically fitting. From her point of view, the jacket is old and frayed. A broken-down piece of something that’s seen better days, has reached its expiration date, and should definitely be retired because there’s no way it’ll ever make it through whatever’s still to come. But when she needs to grab a coat, if only to prevent randomly nosy neighbors from spotting her and wondering why she’s not shivering like crazy in a forty-five degree breeze, which coat does she automatically reach for?

Sighing, she leans her head back against the wall. The air is cool and relaxing up here, but even so, she feels wide awake. The pendant bumping against her skin is a strange combination of the familiar and unfamiliar, and she can’t stop the burgeoning sense of regret that fills her as she stares up at the ever-lightening sky. And it’s not just any regret, either. It’s regret that’s ominous. Regret she fears. Déjà vu regret, like maybe she’s been attacked with this type of regret before?

But no. That’s absurd. Of _course_ she hasn’t.

_It was just dream, Kara_ she assures herself firmly, closing her eyes as she rests her forehead on her knees. _Only a dream. Haven’t you learned better than to take those seriously by now?_

“Only a complete fool discounts dreams _entirely._ ”

The remark seemingly comes from nowhere, and Kara leaps to her feet, startled. “Who’s that?” she calls, looking wildly about her.

“Not your subconscious,” the same voice responds dryly, and Kara’s hands ball into defensive fists as she spins yet again to see a figure in some kind of red and white pantsuit step out of the shadows. “Not this time, at any rate. It’s a bit worn out with your relentless ignoring of it.”

“Okay…” Kara’s feet brace themselves automatically; she’s positive the mystery arrival wasn’t there a minute ago, and the fact that she looks like she just might be _literally_ dressed to kill…that’s in no way relaxing. “What is that supposed to mean?”

The woman tosses back a long, blonde ponytail, the gesture clearly an impatient one. “It means, Kara Zor-El, that for a girl who once loved and excelled at school, you’re really quite slow to catch on. You simply _can’t_ take a gentle hint, can you? Not even from yourself.”

“I’m sorry, but _what?_ ” Kara’s still got her body angled in its ready stance, but indignation momentarily shifts her focus, and she props her hands on her hips, glaring hard. “Who are you, how do you know my name, and what the hell are you doing lurking on the roof of my building at this hour?”

“Oh, honestly.” The ponytailed girl clasps her hands together, seemingly unperturbed. “I’m not planning to attack you or any human residing nearby, this has not one whit to do with kidnapping and ransoms, and no. I wasn’t here when you arrived, so you may rest easy—your hearing isn’t going.”

Kara frowns, befuddlement halting her harsh retort, because there’s no way, no _way_ her poker face is that bad. “Hold on a sec, did you just—?”

“Yes,” the other blonde says coolly. “It’s what I do. Don’t get hung up on it, or this will take far longer than it should.”

No.

On reflex, Kara’s head starts to shake. “But you can’t. Reading minds isn’t something that—”

_I can and I am. And if you really must have some handle to hang onto, you may call me Saturn._

_No,_ she thinks again, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. _There’s no way._

_What?_ The voice filters through her head, calm and cool and all the more frightening because it’s so emotionless. _You think because you’re Kryptonian no one can peer into your thoughts?_

_Yes._ Kara holds herself steady, smiling while she x-rays everything in the nearby area for signs of any type of eavesdropping equipment that might explain this ghost-whisperer situation. Only none appears, and the woman sighs and folds her arms like she knows exactly what’s going on.

_If you require convincing,_ the impassive tone begins, _I can always commence repeating everything you were just thinking about a certain Daxamite._

“Okay, fine, I’ll believe you,” she blurts out, clapping her hands to her ears. “Just stop it and talk to me _not_ in my head all right? That’s…weird. And…totally invasive; please don’t.”

“Any more invasive than you eavesdropping on humans miles outside the city limits or employing x-ray vision on the dwellings of the innocent to locate the guilty?”

A chill tickles through Kara. “Seriously, how do you know who I am?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “Who _are_ you?” _And why is my gut not telling me to throw you off this roof?_

“I’m…well.” ‘Saturn’ lifts a shoulder, lips pursed. “I suppose the best way to put it is that I’m sort of what you’d call a friend.”

Kara snorts, a large chunk of her apprehension morphing into annoyance at the stranger’s matter-of-fact confidence. “Yeah, no offense, but I really don’t think you are.”

“Yes. I said that once, too.” Casually, almost as if the action’s of no consequence at all, the girl extends a wrist, pointer finger hovering above what looks like some kind of ugly plastic bracelet. “I believe ‘colleagues’ was my definition of choice, but you disagreed. Vehemently. Absolutely insisted on applying the ‘friends’ label.”

She presses a button on the black band, and all at once, a grainy projection appears in the air between them—a photo, it seems, of two blondes. One with long, loose hair, laughing and pointing at the camera while wearing a _very_ familiar combo of blue and red, the other in her red and white suit, caught in the act of fixing a ponytail and smiling with sarcastically exaggerated toothiness. It’s clearly a random snap, like one of the hundreds Kara’s currently got on her phone, but the impossibility of it has the little hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“That’s me,” she says, voice fading out despite her best efforts to play it cool. “That’s me and that’s—”

“Yes.” The picture disappears, and the other girl refolds her arms. “So it is.”

“But…how?” Kara can feel her brain beginning to short-circuit, feel the dizzy confusion moving in with the force of a high-speed train. “ _How_ can that be us? I’ve never seen you before in my whole entire life!”

“No, not yet you haven’t,” the girl answers, seemingly unaffected by the escalating nervousness in Kara’s tone. “But you will.”

“ _What?_ ” She searches the other blonde’s exasperatingly neutral expression for any clue as to what’s going on, but gets nothing. Whoever this woman is, she’s good at maintaining an air of secrecy, and Kara’s not sure that bodes well. “Okay, seriously, this is getting beyond weird. Why are you here, and where did you come from?”

“I’m from the future.”

“The future?” Kara doesn’t think she could keep the skepticism out of her voice if she tried. “Of all the available stories, _that’s_ what you’re going with?”

Her visitor raises a shoulder. “It’s the truth, so yes. Is that really so difficult for you with your preexisting knowledge of time travel to believe after observing that photograph?”

“Okay, I guess that’s fair.” Pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, Kara takes a deep breath. “How far into the future are you from?”

“Approximately five hundred years.”

A long, awkward pause passes while Kara readies herself for a punchline that never comes. Or at least some indication that she’s officially lost her mind or is stuck in the middle of the worst dream ever.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” she says finally, when no correction or explanation surfaces. “Like…a really weird, kind of sick one?”

For the first time, a small smile crosses Saturn’s face. “No. I’m not in the habit of placing multiple timelines at risk simply for the thrill of a tasteless prank.”

“Right. Um, so…okay.” The ache in her forehead flares up again, and Kara frowns. “Why…are you here from the future, then?”

“Because you sent me.”

The reply is quick, confident, serious, and leaves Kara with her mouth hanging open.

“What?” she manages, wondering vaguely if _okay_ and _what_ are the only things she’s capable of voicing anymore. “I did _what?_ ”

“You sent me. To warn you.”

Still gaping, Kara forces herself to stop reacting and start thinking like an investigative journalist. Even if the only questions she can think to ask are the basics.

“Why?” she says, tone strengthening as she straightens up. “And…how?”

“The how isn’t important,” Saturn responds, and strangely enough, Kara believes her. “The why is, but it’s also extremely complicated and I can only tell you part of it, so you’ll just have to make do with that.”

“All right.” Overcome by the bizarreness, Kara huffs out a laugh. It’s so like a dream—the fuzzy edge of darkness, the mysterious visitor her head’s telling her to guard against but that her gut okays without hesitation, the soft wind she sometimes feels stirring her hair but that disappears completely at other times, the stillness of the city—that she almost can’t believe it isn’t one. “Go ahead. Tell me the complicated part you’re allowed to tell me.”

“Of course.” Linking her fingers together, the visitor sits down on…something. An overturned box, Kara thinks. “Five hundred years from now, I’m part of a specially-talented group that seeks to protect the universe from certain catastrophic threats.”

“A superhero club?” Kara interrupts, inspecting the red and white suit once more. That part would actually make sense.

Her informant sighs. “I suppose that’s as apt a description as any, yes. Anyway. Centuries from your present time, I’m in a superhero club. Along with Mia, and along with Mon-El.”

“Mon-El and…” The world starts to spin again, and Kara grips the hem of the sleeve that droops down over her hand. “Okay.”

“This is where the complexity comes in.” The blonde woman motions for her to sit too, but Kara shakes her head. “Very well then, have it your way. In this superhero ‘club,’ we often deal with anomalies related to time travel. We met Mon-El as a result of one of those anomalies. He came to us unexpectedly, out of a singularity some among my colleagues are still trying to understand and explain. We took him in, heard his story, and searched for a way to return him to the world he now considered his home, but to no avail. We had to wait for the events to recreate themselves, and the possibility for those conditions simply didn’t exist until four years from the time we rescued him.”

“Four _years?_ ” Kara breaks in. “He was gone for four years?”

The woman nods. “In my time, yes. The anti-lead serum was developed to essentially vaccinate him, and the goal was to return him to twenty-first century Earth after the lead in your atmosphere dissipated. But we discovered sending him back with complete knowledge of his whereabouts and activities during the years with us put too many timelines at high risk of destruction, so we erased as many of those memories as we dared and placed a lock on the rest.”

“So it was you, then.” Kara tries not to sound angry, but she can sense the uncompromising animosity building inside of her at the thought of facing the one who tried to wipe her from Mon-El’s mind. Not that it matters anymore, but _still._ “You gave him amnesia.”

“Yes,” the woman says coolly. “And no.”

Kara scoffs, jamming her fists into the pockets of the jacket. “Yes _and_ no? How’s that, exactly?”

The red and white shoulders go up, then down again. “He was supposed to arrive sooner than he did. The anomaly delayed his arrival, exacerbated his memory loss, and contributed to his overall sense of confusion. Contact between us was to be in case of emergency only, but though we adhered to that plan, we were beginning to believe he’d completely lost memories he was always intended to regain.”

“Memories of you guys,” Kara mutters, resentment doubling.

“There’s no call for jealousy,” her companion retorts in a more exasperated tone than any she’s used before. “Or any more of this wilting-rose hesitation. You’ve had years now to face facts Kara Zor-El, and it’s high time you did.”

“Excuse me?” She means to deny the jealousy insinuation, to point out that she _just_ passed up the chance to be with Mon-El so _clearly,_ there isn’t as much there as everyone and their mother—including this out-of-time telepath—seems to think, but the almost imperious way the second part of the accusation’s delivered aggravates her. “Wilting _rose?_ ”

“Listen to me very carefully,” her visitor says slowly and distinctly. “And not just with your ears and your brain. Do everyone a favor and involve your heart this time.”

Kara coughs out a laugh. “If you think _I_ have to be told to listen to anything with my heart, you can’t know all that much about me, _Saturn_ girl.”

“Except I do.” Out of nowhere, the woman produces a delicate little chain with a small, rounded blue pendant dangling from it. “Proof, since you seem to require so much of it. Recognize this?”

Okay, this is officially it. If the world turns upside down or buildings began inverting themselves into basket-weave patterns, Kara won’t be surprised.

“Where did you get that?” she demands when her voice finally decides to cooperate, hand scuttling up to her throat only to discover her necklace is still there. Though now that she thinks of it, she doesn’t really remember putting it on. “Did I—in the future, I gave that to you?” Because if this girl is telling the truth…”Okay, seriously, _why are you here_?” she bursts out.

“Yes,” the other blonde says. Her face remains stoic, but Kara senses a level of compassion beneath the word that terrifies her. “It really is that bad.”

“Define bad.” Kara means to seem flippant, to sound like she’s not buying any of this, but her voice catches anyway. “Please?”

“Think of it this way,” Saturn says with what seems to Kara like almost antiseptic composure. “In the future I’m from, things are bad enough for you to send me back in time with a message for yourself, and I agree to it despite our club’s strict policies regarding personal history modification. What does that tell you?”

“Okay,” Kara mumbles, shaking her head in refusal when it’s once again indicated that she should sit. “That’s…frightening actually, but also kind of unhelpful; is there any way you can be a bit more specific?”

“Yes. He dies, Kara.”

“What?” As vague a statement as that is, her mind immediately jumps to Mon-El, and her chest tightens like it’s being crushed. “Who does?”

Saturn levels a look at her that says she knows neither of them is fooled. “Mon-El. Five hundred and four years from the moment he exits your lodgings after returning your necklace, he dies battling an evil that threatens the entire galaxy.”

“No.” Kara’s not sticking her fingers in her ears and humming, but her entire being rejects the thought as strenuously as though she were. “No, that’s not—he can’t.”

“He does. It’s a slow, painful, horrible death, and you survive to mourn him.”

“Stop it.” It’s like she’s freezing. Slowly, painfully, ice crystals forming in her heart, fear needling its way through her, and she’s no longer sure if she’s feeling too much all at once, or nothing at all. “I don’t want to hear this,” she whispers. “I don’t _need_ to hear this.”

“You do,” Saturn returns, calm and inexorable.

“No, I don’t!” Kara fairly shouts. Something like panic balloons within her, as does a growing sense that there’s no flying away from this conversation; her limbs feel heavy and sluggish, and besides that, what’s the good of running away from someone powerful enough to get inside her head and read her thoughts? “You don’t get it—how could you? Every. Single. _Time_ I let myself care, something goes wrong! People get hurt because of me, or they end up hating me, or I just flat-out lose them. And I’ve already lost enough. I’m done, do you hear me? I am _done._ I did this before, and I can’t do it again. I. _Can’t._ ”

In a dim, far-off corner of her mind, she recognizes that what she’s saying is almost word-for-word what she told Mon-El a few hours ago. But now, with the girl standing across from her showing no signs of responding with his acceptance, the protest seems feeble.

“Do you have any idea how it feels to lose someone you love?” she blurts, her voice a miserable wisp of its usual self. “How much it hurts?”

“I do.”

The reply is quick and stiff, a return shot as much as an answer, and Kara blinks, taken aback.

“Yes,” Saturn states, a shadow that wasn’t there before in her eyes. “When Mon-El dies in the future, so does someone I care for very deeply.”

 “Oh,” Kara says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Saturn gives her head a short, borderline angry shake. “Don’t be. The only use for sorrow right now is as an instructional motivator. You have to act, Kara, and you have to act quickly if you wish to prevent two deaths that pave the way for a slaughter that effectively touches off an intergalactic war and takes the lives of many of this universe’s heroes.”

“But _why_?” Kara queries, grasping at the conundrum that’s easiest to focus on amidst this landslide of information. “Why are you giving me so many details about the future? Isn’t what’s _going_ to happen supposed to be a big secret? Couldn’t me knowing all this, I don’t know…wreck something?”

“Yes.” An eyebrow arches upward, nearing the other girl’s hairline. “So, once again, you may rest assured that my presence and this entire conversation indicates how desperate you and I are five centuries from now. We try scenario after scenario before one finally shows promise: tipping off past versions of myself and our brainiest colleague, and inducing us to travel back in time with the rest of the crew to feed Mon-El a partial truth about how the universe’s survival depends upon him renewing his relationship with you.”

“You mean you went through all that just to _lie_ to him?” Kara murmurs, somewhere between horrorstruck and impressed by the boldness of the move.

“No. We withheld the full truth from him because it was necessary, but told him nothing that was untrue,” Saturn returns coolly. “The objective here is to save Mon-El and—everyone else. To achieve that objective, a certain amount of falsity is required. Otherwise everything will stay on its current path to destruction.”

Eyes fixed on the ground, Kara gnaws agitatedly at the end of a finger. She still wants to believe this is fake; that she’ll wake up soon and laugh at the madness of her own wild imagination, but there’s a truth undercutting all the insanity that won’t be denied.

“You said he dies,” she says abruptly, looking up.

“He’s not careful,” Saturn replies, divining the unspoken _how?_ that follows her statement. “When it happens, neither you nor I are there to stop it due to a conjunction of absurd events set in motion years before.”

“What events?” she demands.

“The necklace. You two have some sort of trade agreement, and every time it changes hands there’s a spark or…a moment, if you will, between you. You then avoid one another for a while before meeting back up and carrying on as though everything’s fine.”

Kara reaches up to grip the pendant, queasiness threading its way through her. Avoiding and ignoring. Yes, that sounds very similar to her current plan.

“Because you two are in the avoidance stage since Mon-El’s just given you back the necklace, you dodge working as partners. And because I’m in an emotionally dicey situation with _my_ usual partner, I send him with Mon-El and accompany you. Their mission turns out to be a trap rather than a rescue, and it’s a trap that either of our presences could’ve prevented—I would’ve foreseen it; you would’ve easily fought your way out of it.”

“Couldn’t you have—”

“We’ve already tried everything,” Saturn interrupts, voice taut. “Like it or not, this is it, Kara. There’s no comfortable alternative or better way. There’s only this: either you’re willing to risk your heart, or you’re not. The choice is yours.”

Another—stronger—wave of nausea curdles Kara’s stomach. She feels slow and strange now, like she’s somehow sunk to the bottom of the ocean and gotten caught up in current she’s powerless against, but a part of her is okay with that. Because at least it’s _safe._

“What exactly do you expect me to do?” she says haltingly, blinking hard against her, blurred, sparkly vision. “Just walk up to him out of the blue and tell him I love him?”

“Ideally,” Saturn says without hesitation, “yes.”

A kooky-sounding laugh pops out of her. “And how do I know that would fix everything? What if all I do is create a whole different timeline where he dies anyway?”

The other woman holds her hands out. “Then you create a whole different timeline where he dies anyway, like all living things eventually do. But at least you’ll have tried.”

“This isn’t helping.” Burying her face in her hands, Kara inhales until her lungs ache.

“Well, then. Perhaps this will.”

Something flutters into her lap, and Kara removes her hands long enough to see that it’s a scrap of paper with something scrawled on it in giant letters.

“‘Don’t be afraid,’” she reads aloud, nerves prickling as she recognizes her own handwriting. “What? I’m—”

 “Totally confused,” Saturn fills in. “Yes. I know. The point your future self is trying to make in her extremely archaic way, is that you can’t allow the fear of what _may_ happen to shape your entire life. In five hundred years, everyone that you currently love—everyone born of this planet, that is—is dead. Not from war, not from plague, not from any of the tragic accidents humans are so susceptible to, but from the simple passage of time.”

Dear Rao.

“Good grief, is this seriously supposed to be a motivational speech?” Kara wants to know, sickness resurging with a vengeance.

“No, it’s a necessary transfer of vital information,” Saturn counters matter-of-factly. “Life isn’t simple, Kara. Neither is love. Both are messy, infuriating, and usually quite painful, but they’re also precious. Hiding from one or both isn’t the answer.”

“I know, all right?” A tear slips down her face, gathering just under the edge of her nose in a cold, tickly little puddle. “I do. But when I think about it, when I think about _him…_ ”

“Believe me. I understand.”

Kara’s fingers twist restlessly at the pendant. “What do I do?” she says finally. “Where the hell do I even start?”

The other girl’s voice gentles to lullaby softness. “You love him. Always have. Just tell him.”

_Right._

Shaking her head, Kara laughs again and jars what feels like a flood of tears loose. “You do know it’s not that easy when you’re scared, don’t you?”

“Of course it’s not,” Saturn scoffs. “Love is a thousand times easier to feel than it is to verbalize, which is precisely why so many of us choose to express it in ways others find less-than obvious. But even so, there’s no point in claiming ‘duty’ or wasting time on cowardice when love is on the line. If your heart is still with Mon-El—and I think we both know the answer to that—you need to let him know. Before it becomes too late and you spend the rest of your very long life wishing you’d had the courage to speak up while you had the chance.”

Kara sighs, wondering if she’s ever going to reach the end of tonight’s surprises. “That’s…really good advice, actually. Where’d you hear that?”

A strange something—not a smile, but not _not_ a smile, either—tugs at her uninvited visitor’s lips. “A very impractical, caring, regret-filled Kryptonian. One of the last of her kind.”

“Wow.” She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry anymore, so she decides to go with a combination of both. Again. “So no joke…you really came all this way to give me recycled advice? From me?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Saturn smiles for real this time. (Once, briefly.) “And to pay off a debt.”

“A debt?” Kara repeats, eyes narrowing as the world around her seems to shimmer oddly behind a grayish haze. “What?”

“I told you,” the other girl says, eyes lit like she knows something she’s not telling. “Where I come from, we’re friends. Before you, I was a bit unfamiliar with that concept, so I consider it my sworn duty to help Younger You however I can. Now.” Face sobering, she gives a brisk nod. “Fare you well, Kara Zor-El. I won’t remember you when we meet in half a millennium and I’m quite certain it won’t seem like it, but I’ll be grateful for your friendship. Best of luck with Mon-El, and fingers crossed that you remember all this when you wake up.”

“When I _what_?” Kara yelps.

The question’s barely out of her mouth when her eyes blink open and she realizes she’s not on the roof after all. For Rao’s sake, she’s not even outside. She’s just in her apartment, lying in an awkward ball on her couch and staring stupidly into a darkness that’s filled with smashed pillows, shadowy furniture, and the occasional pool of moonlight. Besides herself, there’s no sign of another living soul—the room is empty, silent, almost funereal, and the dawning comprehension is swifter than a bucket of ice water.

Sitting up, she swipes angrily at the unwanted droplets still caught in her lashes with a closed fist. This is so, so, _so_ beyond foolish! What is wrong with her; is she really so emotionally fragile now that one insanely realistic dream can upset her to the point that she starts crying in her sleep? Mon-El isn’t going to die, and he’s definitely not going to die because he just gave her back her mother’s necklace, so why—wait. _Wait._

The necklace.

Breath hitching, Kara uncurls her fist and stares hard at the object that’s still lying in in her palm, not hanging around her neck. It’s not lost on her that, though she has no memory of switching off any of the lights, her apartment is now pitch black. And neither is the fact that there’s a faint, bluish glow that she’s never seen before emanating from the little pendant.

The same pendant Alura Zor-El gave her daughter with a promise.

The same pendant Mon-El wore while he was gone and maybe dreamed of her and everything he’d left back on Earth.

And the same pendant she used to fall asleep wearing and wake up feeling like she’d actually visited Krypton because she dreamed about it.

“I’ll be with you in your dreams,” she whispers, blanching as it hits her: _Only a fool discounts a dream entirely._

Dear Rao, what in the hell is she doing?

In the wink of an eye she’s on her feet, throat dry, heart hammering in her chest. She’s got to find him, she thinks wildly, right now, right away; if Psychic Dream Girl whose name she’s already struggling to remember is wrong about the current timeline and something happens to him _before_ she gets the chance to say everything she needs to say to him, she’ll never forgive herself. Ever.

Snatching Mon-El’s sweatshirt off her coatrack—for real this time; it’s there because of course it is—she rushes for the window and leaps out into the starry night. Flying isn’t an easy task; she’s half-drained mere seconds after takeoff and finally appreciates why her sister insisted so much on rest and caution, but she sets her jaw and sticks it out anyway. A minute or two later and she’s standing outside his door, windblown shaky and tense, knocking like her life depends on it.

But when there’s no answer other than a sharp crack of wood that brings her to her senses, she’s forced to accept that he’s just not home.

So, propping her spine against the door, she slides down until she’s sitting right in the smack middle of the doorway where he can’t possibly miss her whenever he gets back. There’s nothing dignified about this campout, not in the slightest, but she’s too jittery to care, and anyway, this isn’t about pride. Ever since the beginning, way back when he drove her crazy almost twenty-four-seven, it’s been about fear, and loss, and the kind of pain she can’t ever seem to guard against.

It’s not that she _doesn’t_ love him, she thinks, drawing her knees up to her chin and hugging them tightly while she focuses on taking deep, calming breaths. That’s never been it. It’s just that love is so cruel sometimes; cruel, unpredictable, and unstoppable. A force she can’t control no matter how she tries. And what she feels for him…it’s strong and annoyingly stubborn, yes, but it’s also so risky it’s frightening. Because if she lets herself love him the way she did before—freely, happily, incautiously—then she can be hurt the way she was when she lost him. The way she was when she thought he’d forgotten her. The way she swore she’d never be again, but the way she is every time she sees someone who’s not named ‘Kara’ buzzing around him like a bee to a flower.

Rao save her, there’re no two ways about this, is there?

Covering her face with her hands, she leans her head back and groans. “Idiot,” she mutters. “Such an _idiot._ ”

“Kara?”

Her heart surges into overdrive all over again as she looks up to see him at the end of the hall, closing the door to the rooftop stairs. He must’ve flown in and sped his way down, she thinks inanely, swallowing hard to ease the cotton-stuffed feeling in her mouth. That’s why she didn’t hear him. Plus—nerves, preoccupation, etc. etc. Yeah. Definitely. That’s what it was.

“Is…everything okay?”

Oh, right. She needs to speak, doesn’t she? Awkwardly, she clears her throat, breath stuttering when he turns around and his gaze lands on her

“Yeah,” she says, anxious tingles taking over. “It’s good.”

“You sure?” A small frown wrinkles his brows as he heads toward her.

“Yeah, no. Uh, it’s just…” Tucking a large clump of hair behind her ear, she smiles tentatively. “Hi.”

To her relief, he doesn’t immediately press the issue of why she’s blockading the entrance to his apartment at two in the morning. He just smiles back. Brightly, like he’s never been happier to see her, and it’s almost more than she can stand.

“Hi,” he says, propping a shoulder against the doorframe as unconcernedly as though their last conversation never happened. “What’s going on?”

Stomach flipping, Kara scrapes together every bit of her courage and squeezes the pendant in her hand. “It’s kind of a long story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title inspired by the song “What You Mean To Me” from the Finding Neverland [musical] soundtrack because I love it (seriously, it’s beautiful. If you haven’t heard it, go listen to it. Now. <3) 
> 
> *Ok. I’m so sorry how long it’s taken to post this. And I’m sorry it’s so messy. And that it ends where it does. I reworked this chapter SO MANY TIMES trying to make it end at a less-abrupt, less-cruel juncture, but everything I tried was worse (just trust me on this, lol). About half of this was written in August 2017, so there’s a lot that had to be redone/re-edited based on chapters I added in between that time. I’m still not sure I got everything, so if something seems weird, let me know and I’ll answer your question as best I can. The part where Kara’s dreaming, for example…I meant it to jump around/seem vague and off because that’s how it is when you’re dreaming, but while I was doing a final proofread, it hit me that it may only make sense to me even finding out that she’s dreaming because I’m the one who wrote it. So, yeah. If it makes zippo sense, I’m sorry, and let me know!
> 
> *I wasn’t sure whether or not I should keep it where Imra tells Kara to call her “Saturn” instead of Saturn Girl, but I decided to stick with it since the way I imagined Imra, I just don’t see her telling Kara her real name and her full superhero name. Also: the implication is that Imra’s able to communicate with Kara through the necklace, because at the time I started this, I was convinced that was the necklace’s purpose. And, honestly, you’ll pry that theory from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> *I had the idea for this dancing scene while writing the Christmas dancing scene in my other Karamel fic and wrote 90% of it a year or so ago, so it was fun to finally use it. Also, not technically important, but in my mind, the Glenn Miller song they’re dancing to is “I Know Why (And So Do You)” because that song’s both beautiful and fitting <3
> 
> *The next upload I do may take another good while because it’s also pretty long (and may have an epilogue to make sure the loose ends are all tied), but it will officially end this story, so yay! FINALLY! I’m so sorry and thanks so much for sticking with me despite my glacial pace. You guys are the best, and I hope you’re all doing great :)
> 
> *On that note: what is everyone thinking of SG S4 so far? I’m only watching on Wednesdays or Fridays now because I’m personally struggling with S1 flashbacks (J’onn is once again the only character I love at all times) & the most excited I’ve been to date was the Brainy/Nia “Do I know you?” scene & when I recognized Villain Guy’s dad as the arrogant scientist in one of my favorite X-Files episodes. Brainy’s probably the only thing I’ve wholeheartedly loved this season, but even he can’t fill the glaring hole left by Mon-El and Winn, & it makes me furious when I think about how we could’ve had all three of those idiots roaming around the DEO with their snark. Seriously, the wasted potential on this show is exasperating. It’s like it insists on remaining mediocre when it has arguably the best ensemble cast on the CW and could reach such heights. LIKE WHY, THOUGH.
> 
> *I'm sorry for how sad some of the lines in this chap seem in light of the way S3 ended. I wrote a lot of them before the season started airing, and they're necessary to the plot so I had to keep them in, but just so everyone knows, I'm not actually this big a glutton for punishment. THE SEVEN YEARS THING WAS AN UNFORTUNATE COINCIDENCE.
> 
> *As always, thanks for reading/commenting! Have a wonderful weekend, and if you ever need a random pick-me-up, google “Puppies in yellow flowers.” Not smiling is virtually impossible.

**Author's Note:**

> *Title's inspired by a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story "The Sensible Thing" (which is a good story and lot of fun to dissect if you're a literature nerd/into that sort of thing like I am): "There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice." I've had this quote in mind for Kara and Mon since he left at the end of S2, and it's kind of become my theme for them now.  
> *The goal was 5 chapters, but now that I'm editing, I'm thinking I may add one or two chapters written from Mon-El's POV toward the end, so it could stretch to 7. So while it says 1/5 right now, it could change to 1/7.  
> *This is essentially my Karamel S3+ wishlist that I started outlining and writing back in August after I saw the SDCC trailer.  
> *Thanks for reading/commenting! Also, whatever day you're reading this...hope you're having an amazing day! :D


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